My girlfriend's mom once got rooked into buying a hunk o' "High-Altitude Vermont Goat Cheese" at a roadside tourist-trap on the Skankamangus Highway. It smelled, and allegedly tasted, just like something that came from the toothless end of a barn cat. Poor mom ate three or four bites before she concluded the problem was the cheese...and not her flatlander's lack of an adventurous palate. First, the cheese got thrown out the window...crows flew from it...and mom tossed her cookies.
May I offer that as tonight's entree?