What else would you call it?

On Sunday, Shawn and I realized that we had forgotten to pick up any American cheese at the commissary for the burgers that we were going to grill that night. Since the commissary is not open on Sunday, we were forced to rely on our local market, or else go cheese-less. Luckily, we found this:

For those of you that don’t read Cyrillic, the name of the cheese is “Cheeseburger.” And I was the crazy American giggling in the dairy aisle of the grocery store.