Actually, a present from friends Ilona and James. A plastic bag stuffed with cheeses and sweet-sour jams. A smelly bag. After they left—after a languorous Sunday lunch, their fun kids feeding Jazz figs under the tree, an Indian feast with homemade Naan we grilled outdoors, a rigorous walk to the ravine—I didn’t feel like cooking dinner. Opened the smelly bag. Unloaded the loot. Poured a glass of cheap rosé. Proceeded to eat the most bewitching, runny, funky cheeses ever. For dinner. That is all.