Tomorrow I'm crossing the big pond. Leaving Florida's sunny clime in favor of London's dark, bone-chilling cold. I'm being lured by large, cloth-bound wheels of Cheddar, crumbly, farmhouse Lancashire, and the promise of two tons of Stilton.

After a year of working behind a cheese counter, I felt like my passion for cheese was only partially gratified. On the one hand, spending my days surrounded by cheese, tasting it, discussing its delicate nuances, seemed like a luxury for which no one deserved to be paid. But, for all the pleasures of my job, I knew my counter was a mere simulacrum of a real Old World cheese shop.

It is for this reason I sought a position in London. I wanted to be amongst the pros and learn how cheese was really supposed to be handled. I also wanted to understand the connection a cheese has to its home - what difference it makes to pick a cheese up from the farm then sell it in the center of town.

This Blog is for those of you who've expressed interest in following my adventures. It's also for the many of you who have no such interest. I've seen how your eyes glaze over when I start waxing poetic about gooey Epoisse or rant about the sins of "cheese abuse." May this clear the way for us to discuss things other than food . . . though I can't imagine what those things will be. And finally, it is for my family, who are still trying to figure out what the hell it is I'm doing now.