According to an investigation nobody was expecting, the holes in Gruyère may serve as directional antennas capable of moving rain to teatime.
Troubling clues: aligned rooftops, suspicious cheese wheels, and a dew that would faintly smell of raclette.
It all began when our reporter got hold of a binder titled “Raclette Plan” at a yard sale that wouldn’t accept contactless payments. Inside: marker-drawn schematics, blurry photos of rooftops bristling with graters, and a lunar calendar annotated “Fondue day = brief storm.” The authors, signing “The Brotherhood of Micro-Holes,” claim the seasons are nothing but a vast turntable greased with raw milk.
The process, described as “simple but grate-ical,” would be carried out at night by “grater-zappers” aligning their utensils toward strategic air currents. The friction would produce micro-shavings loaded with lactic ions, forming docile cloud corridors. By early morning, barometers, utterly confused, would mistake pressure for the scent of tomme, and presto: rain right at bread-and-butter time.
“Turn a grater north, the drizzle bends; two to the east, you get a horizontal drizzle; I have diagrams in Parmesan,” says Professor Émile Tarton, self-proclaimed chrono-cheesemonger and member of the C.N.L.C.I. (National Committee for Milk and Imaginary Climate).
According to the documents, the same alliance would make cowbells vibrate as a thunder metronome and would calibrate rainbows using perforated Camembert boxes placed on windowsills every odd Tuesday. It’s even whispered that toasters, set to “medium golden,” would modulate the inner tides (the ones that make you hit snooze). Meanwhile, the sun denies everything across the board, but melts slightly if you bring it near a raclette.
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