Against the Cheese Board Assembled in Haste

Nothing reveals a host's character faster than a cheese board, and nothing reveals it more cruelly than one assembled in the final four minutes before guests arrive.

The cold wedge is the primary crime. Cheese served straight from the refrigerator is cheese with its aroma switched off, its texture seized, and its entire personality in hiding. One hour at room temperature. Every time. If you take one instruction from me this year, take that one.

The second crime is abundance without intention. Eleven cheeses is not generosity, it is indecision made edible. Three is confident. Five is a proper board. Beyond that you are simply frightened of silence.

Cube nothing. A cheese cut into cubes has been robbed of its rind, its shape, and its dignity, and arranged like something to be speared at a conference. Present the wedge whole with a knife beside it and permit your guests to make their own mistakes, which they will, and which you will forgive, because you are a gracious person who has read this decree.