Snakes on a Plate!

Review of Kraft "Grate-It-Fresh" Parmesan Cheese

Blog Buzz is the new black. Companies have been sending out sample products to bloggers, hoping a positive online review will spur word-of-mouth frenzy, and eventually translate into big sales. At least three times a week businesses with new beauty products to promote send me lurid email. Please, Birdie, they say. Please let us send you some free goodies! This product is amazing - amazing! And sexy! Woo Yeah! Maybe you can write about it for us!

I always say Nope. I'm an Avon Girl.

But a few weeks ago I received a different request. It wasn't from Clinique or Benefit or Max Factor begging me to treat my eyes to the latest amazing, sexy de-puffer. It wasn't even from a company with some tangential connection to beauty like L. L. Bean or Walgreens. The email was thoughtful. Smart. Alive. It didn't sound like corporate bullshit. I liked it, and decided I liked the person who sent it. His name was Adam, and he told me he was an intern at Kraft, and would I consider trying out a new "Grate-It-Fresh" Parmesan cheese? Adam described the cheese by using anecdotes and clear facts. He didn't ask me to write about it, just said that maybe I would have some suggestions or others who may enjoy a sample. He even added a smiley at just the right moment, and I found myself laughing, wishing I could meet this Kraft wonder Intern who knew how to make a jaded Avon blogger smile.

I pictured Adam crossing the fingers of his left hand and clicking "send" with his right. Poor intern, I thought. Who doesn't like cheese? I'll try it. I emailed Adam the Intern and told him yeah, send me the cheese.

A few days later a styrofoam cooler arrived via DHL. My son, 11, answered the doorbell and hauled the goods inside.

"Mom! Mom! You got a cooler in the mail! Quick!"

I hustled to the front door and stared at a square styrofoam box, approximately a foot long and a foot tall and a foot wide. Wow, that must be some hunk 'o cheese. I opened it and found myself face to face with a couple of ice packs and a plastic wrapper containing the magic Parmesan. My son grabbed the cheese and read the label.

"Mom! We have to have spaghetti tonight!" He gave me the puppy dog eyes and I said Yeah, spaghetti, no problem.

A few hours later I set the table. Three plates of hot spaghetti, three paper napkins, three unmatched forks, and the exalted Kraft Grate-It-Fresh. Adam sent three information sheets along with the cheese, but it didn't require instructions. The cheese rested in a clear-plastic cylinder with a screw-top bottom. I twisted off the lid, revealing a green grid that acts as a grater. You twist the canister and the cheese grates itself, right onto your food! I read the label to see what ingredients were in this modern product. Gotta be a lot of conditioners and fillers and preservatives, right? But nope, just good old-fashioned Parmesan cheese, nothing more, nothing less. Cheese and a plastic self-contained grater.

I hovered the product over my dinner and gave it a twirl. I didn't need to press hard - the grater worked like a charm and deposited two-inch long tiny, thin twists of cheese onto my pasta. They squirmed and shimmied, delicate dairy dancers, as they melted into the hot food, and my boys both reached for the grater at the same time, desperate to add some motion garnish to their plates.

My son, 9, works the Kraft grater

Mmmmmmmmmmm! Looks "grate!"

We each decided that the cheese was wonderful! It tasted fresher than the typical cans of pre-grated sprinkles. I started to wonder whether Kraft was planning a Romano version.

"I love this!" 11 grabbed the cheese for an additional squirt.

"Yeah. I love it, too. I'm going to give it two big thumbs up." I lifted another twirled fork of spaghetti to my mouth and watch my boy grate cheese, watched it swirl and fall, watched him cover every square inch of his plate with the product.

"Hey, mom?" 9 spoke with a full mouth. A strand of spaghetti hung outside the right corner of his lips, and he sucked it inside. "Mom? We're supposed to be testing this product, right?"

"Yup. And I'd say we're doing an excellent job!" I chewed another bite, decided I could never do a low-carb regimen, decided I would eat two luscious plate-fulls.

"Well, Mom, everybody already loves spaghetti. So this isn't a good test. We need to test the cheese on something no one would eat."

I stared at 9. He pointed his fork at his older brother.

"How about you eat the cheese on a worm? You made me read that book! I bet you won't do it!"

Ah. How to Eat Fried Worms. I knew they passed my old childhood book between them, knew they both stayed up late, flashlights under the covers, reading the odd little dog-eared book about the boy who accepts a fifty-dollar bet to eat fried worms.

"Now, boys. We are NOT eating worms! Finish your dinner! Besides, in the sixth grade, my science teacher Mr. Gola made us eat a worm. It wasn't that bad."

I used my Mom voice, my I Know I'm Right voice, the voice I use when I think I'm better or smarter or more experienced than the receiver of my oral spasms. I rubbed the bottom of my feet against the dog's soft fur. She grunted under the table, hopeful for crumbs or a sneaky food-filled hand.

"Uh, Mom. I don't believe you." 11 cleared his throat and placed his fork on the table. He crossed his arms over his chest and turned his head, let his clear hazel eyes meet mine. "You're going to have to prove it. I'm tired of all these things grown-ups say. They always claim they did this and that and we just have to believe it. You have to show us, Mom."

Both boys forgot their food. They didn't lose their gaze, watched my expression change from surprise to parental anger to surprise to Yeah. Yeah, I'll eat a worm. Both boys bolted from the table, dog on their tails, and left the front door wide open in a trail of moral indignatious dust. I heard bits and pieces of their worm-collecting conversation as I washed the spaghetti dishes.

"Um, nope. That one's not big enough. We have to find a juicy one. You know, a fat one."

Ick.

Ten minutes later the boys returned with a wriggler. I set the frying pan on the stove and let them slip him inside. He squirmed against the cool Teflon:

Poor little booger!

I didn't have the heart to fry him, so I decided to eat him raw. I placed him on a plate and grated the cheese on top:

Dessert?

I drank a tall glass of tap water, hoping to calm my gag reflex. The worm decided he didn't like the cheese and started to slither away!

Runaway worm!!

I said silent thanks and sorry to the poor slimy critter, grabbed him, and hoisted him into my mouth. My boys begged me to chew, explaining it was the only way I could tell if Kraft could make even a worm taste good. I chewed, and I'll spare you the details. Let's just say that worms taste a bit like liver, and liver and cheese ain't a bad combination, but not one I'd like to repeat any time soon.

That night, as I tucked my boys into bed, 11 raised one eyebrow.

"Mom? I like that grated cheese stuff. Can you write that I liked it?"

I kissed him goodnight, his brother already snoring in the bunk below, and patted the covers around his neck.

"Yeah, I'll write that, honey."

"And Mom? You rock."

Sometimes I do things for money. Sometimes I do things out of desperation. Sometimes I do things for the sheer thrill. But every time I do something for my boys, even if it's eating New Mexican worms, I do it for love. Yeah. Love. With grated cheese on top.