There’s really good queso in Lincoln Nebraska.
Seattle, not so much.
The Lincoln Nebraska queso looks fundamentally unhealthy. It actually glows a little bit. It’s not yellow, it’s white with multicolored flakes of what I assume are peppers of some kind. Green, red, orange, and yellow shards of what I hope are at least vegetable matter.
There has to be at least one pepper in there, I can feel the heat.
It undulates and jiggles simultaneously, kind of like me running, but with way more flavor.
The consistency includes a wealth of tactile experiences from top to bottom as one scoops the seemingly greaseless cheese (I think it’s cheese) onto a chip. The top is delightfully, perfectly chewy like an al dente noodle, the middle a hot runny mess.
I don’t understand why such a thing does not exist where I live (Center of the Universe).
The queso here is just liquified yellow cheese mixed with some peppers, with the consistency of (you guessed it) melted yellow nacho cheese ala 7-11. Or possibly AM/PM.
I feel like the Midwest is ripping me off by keeping their recipe such an (obviously) closely guarded secret.
Sure, here in The Great Pacific Northwest we have salmon and mountains and apples and Gooey Ducks (real thing) and some other stuff but we oversell that crap like it’s nobody’s business. We have no shame, “Look, come take a bite of this Gooey Duck, Seattle is amazingggggggg.” (Insert self-satisfied look.)
(I’ve never tried a Gooey Duck because of its semblance to a distinctly uncomfortable – to look at – part of a stallion’s or male zebra’s – I refuse to Google what a male zebra is called -anatomy.)
Google it. You’ll probably end up on a watch list but Google it.
Apparently there’s a little harbor on the Olympic Peninsula (it’s called John Wayne Marina I know exactly where it is I don’t know why I’m being coy, other than the sure pouty joy of being coy…and yes, he kept his boat there) where Gooey Ducks are harvested then promptly next-day-air’d to China and Japan at a bazillion dollars a pound as it’s seen as a delicacy.
Which is my point. Can someone in Lincoln next-day-air’d me some white queso please and stop making it a secret? C’mon, whore yourself out by telling us how great you are as deemed by a local product you make/eat/brag about. I know it’s tiresome and soul-crushing, but eventually you’ll get over your sense of dignity and pride.
And I’ll get good queso.