We were strategizing how to smuggle cheese back into America after our upcoming French vacation. Real love is planning crimes together.
Ultimately, the whole conspiracy was moot—the U.S. Customs site says hard cheeses are “generally admissible,” which is the kind of intentionally vague phrasing that gives full authority to whatever Border Patrol agent is working the 5 a.m. shift at JFK and how charitably he views your dairy.
But the plotting was good for us. It’s healthy for a marriage to work through high-stakes hypotheticals. And crucially, I refused to let Mr. P take any risk. His lawful presence here depends on never becoming a name in a federal database. Me, though?
“Here’s the plan,” I said, after we circled through the options. “I pack the cheese. We buy legal foie gras at Charles de Gaulle. We declare the foie at U.S. Customs. You hand it to the officer like a fancy bribe. The foie is the decoy. The cheese sails through unnoticed.”
“And if they search your bag?” he asked.
“I say I didn’t know cheese was dairy.”
He stared at me. “What?”
“Think about it,” I said. “The form probably says ‘no dairy.’ So I act confused. ‘Wait… cheese is dairy?’” I widened my eyes. “‘I thought dairy was, like, milk.’”
“They’ll never buy that.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” I said. “You’re too smart to understand how fucking dumb some people are. I guarantee there are Americans out there who genuinely don’t know cheese is dairy.”
He still looked skeptical.
“They are not handing out $10,000 fines to some tall, confused blonde who thinks dairy means milk and packed a 10-pound cheese wheel by accident. That’s not a threat. That’s a sitcom.”
