My Garden of Edam

One of these things is not like the other...

     Bonjour, my lovely readers. I hope you have missed me terribly. I hope you have checked this blog every day only to be disappointed to see the same post load time and time again. I hope you will forgive me. Most of all, I hope you are ready for some fresh thoughts and cultural sophistication.

With all that said, it's time to talk about cheese.

Reflections Of An American Cheese-Lover Post-France

     To start things off, I must describe the long history of my love for cheese. Somewhere in my house there is an old home video of me, three years old with a bow on my head, being walked on stage by my mother in a beauty pageant. It was the first time I had ever participated in a pageant and it would be the absolute last time I would ever participate in a pageant. My debut as a star was curtailed, though I am not quite sure if it was my determination to spend the least amount of time on my feet out of all the contestants or my utter lack of interest in leaving the stage, eventually resulting in me being dragged off by my mother, which did me in.

     One part of my chaotic parade that did go reasonably well was the naming off of my favorites by the announcer. My favorite TV show: Sesame Street. My favorite cartoon character: Elmo. My favorite food: cheese. What cheese? Any and all cheeses in every form imaginable to my three-year-old self. Cheese toast. Grilled cheese. Grits with cheese. Cheetos. Cheez-Its (NEVER Cheese Nips). Cheddar cheese. Macaroni and cheese. String cheese. Cheese pizzas. Just plain ol' slices of American cheese fresh in their plastic wrappers.

     As I got older, I discovered more sophisticated ways of integrating cheese into my diet. I figured out I could put cheese on things that previously had none. All of a sudden there were brand new foods. It was like I had a hole in my life that I never knew was there until I was able to remedy it, with cheese. Nachos and cheese. Cheeseburgers. Cheese balls. Cheese fries. Queso dip. Cream cheese on bagels. Cheese on rice. Cheese 'n' Eggs. EZ Cheese and Ritz crackers. Broccoli sure got a whole lot better, and I even had specialty cheese biscuits I demanded whenever Dad made breakfast on weekend mornings.

     A few more years and I still found more cheeses at my fingertips. Cottage cheese. Cheese fondue. Smoked cheese. Swiss cheese. Ricotta cheese. Fresh mozzarella. Brie.  Asiago cheese. Blue Cheese. And so on, and so forth. While I am on the subject, I must interject here my conclusion that Alfredo pasta is just Mac & Cheese for adults.

     You can only imagine the wonder and amazement I experienced when I wandered into the French grocery, called Casino, for the first time on my study abroad trip. There were the stands dedicated to fruit and fish and fresh bread. There were aisles of pastas. There were hundreds of wines to choose from... and then I found the cheese aisle.

     It was all there. All the cheese I had ever desired in my lifetime. Cheddar, Brie, Bleu, Edam, Gorgonzola, Mozzarella, Gruyere, Roquefort, Chevres, Cream Havarti, Feta, Parmesan, Reblochon, Swiss, Lancashire... the mirrors lining the shelves and display cases might as well have been the mirrors of fun houses for young children. In them I saw real cheeses in real cheese wheels. Real cheeses in real cheese boxes. Real cheeses in real pre-shredding shapes and sizes.

     I had to touch them all. I picked up each cheese and smelled it. I held it. I squeezed it and turned it. I would have tasted it had there not been the obligatory plastic wrapping to stop me from entering my very own Garden of Edam.

     Though all I left with was an eighth of a wheel of Brie and a bar of soap, my first trip to the grocery lasted at least a full hour, if not more, with most of my time being spent in the cheese. Of our weekly stipend of 100 euros, I would estimate that ten to twelve percent of it went directly to French cheese each Monday. 

     The trip was always the same too. I would wander the store, teasing myself by not directly darting to the cheese aisle, leaving the best part for last and building the anticipation. I'd browse the breads and maybe check out the cereal selection, all the while creeping closer to my friends Monterey and Jack. Eventually, I'd find myself suddenly surrounded by Colby and Ricotta and I would disappear for a good half hour before emerging victorious with what was sure to be a delicious meal all on its own.

__________

     I went to the store the other day with my mother after I returned from France to look for healthy foods to take up residence in our fridge and pantry. The usual dance ensued. Step, two, three. Step, two, three. Hold. Ahh, peanut butter. Waltz and waltz and waltz and turn. Why, tuna, hello! Switch buggies. Do-si-do and a kick and a jump. Chicken breast, how nice to see you. Twirl, twirl and dip... cheese aisle, we meet again.

    Except this time it was different. American slices stacked up to my shoulders greeted me with an awkward familiarity; it was like meeting an old friend from elementary school for the first time in a few years. I glanced around and found one row of Feta and one grouping of miniature cheese boxes containing the blessed Brie. A sea of thin square clones pressed together like sardines met me head on, only differentiated by a slight change in color or branding. There was nothing to feel, nothing to smell, nothing to hold that wasn't layered in stiff packaging.

     I found myself stuck with a question and a dilemma, neither of which I particularly felt like addressing. The question: Have I become a cheese snob? Cheese enthusiast that I have been my entire life, I have never found an aversion to eating whatever cheese is in front of me. Now that I have experienced the life of fine cheese, what do I do with myself? The question leads, then, into the dilemma: Do I buy the cheese available to me or go without it altogether until I can find better cheese? Is all cheese good cheese? Do I make do with what I am given, or do I work to promote a higher value of cheese? Do I dishonor and do cheese a disservice by endorsing Kraft singles with my purchasing power? 

     My temporary solution: Cottage cheese. Cottage cheese is pretty much the same wherever you go. It's always either completely loved or completely hated, and it can't come in anything but a plastic bucket. No one really wants to hold cottage cheese and the smell, I would hazard to say, is always the same. I avoided the decision-making by leaving with a container of it to hold me over until I am forced to return to the grocery and determine a course of action that sets the tone for the rest of my cheese-loving life.

Get Your Ticket Here

          I find the French trains interesting because they can be many things at once. They are versatile and volatile and can just as easily lead you to success as they can to failure. You can take them to the next stop or to the next country if you want. You can pay or not pay according to your level of daring, and sometimes you can even get a discount if the lady at the desk is kind enough to ask your age. The train has many properties and roles, the first among these being a reliable form of transportation, but most of the time, the train also has a mind and personality of its own to figure into the equation of getting you from place to place.

The Bad Date

This train leaves you waiting… waiting… waiting… and wondering whether it is ever going to show. You think, “Maybe, it got held up in traffic,” so you wait around on the platform convincing yourself that it’s going to show up any minute now. Any minute now… You think, “It probably just got a late start,” and so you force yourself to remain rooted to the same spot, afraid that if you move anywhere it will come and you’ll miss it completely as it moves on its way like you never even existed. Most likely, it’s sitting at home in the depot and hasn’t bothered to let you know it cancelled because it figures you’ll just catch the next one that comes along.

The P-P-P-P-P-P-P-Poker Face

This train plays two distinct hands. The first is to intimidate you into folding early. You hop on a train because you are sure it is the right one, but something about the train makes you question its destination. It’s a sign or a vague direction you hear the conductor give another person. All of a sudden you ditch the train only to realize a few minutes later that it most definitely was the one you needed and now you will be waiting forever for another train, especially if it’s in the middle of the day.

The second hand is a result of the train’s impeccably vague instructions. It gives just enough information to convince you that you are going to come out on top. You’ve got the right train going in the right direction to the right destination, and then bam! You’re stuck in the belly of Monte Carlo when you meant to be in St. Rochelle, or the train darts past your stop because you failed to realize it was an express.

The Peeping Tom

          Sometimes the train winds its way around the track at an incredibly slow pace, allowing for it to become your peephole into other people’s daily lives. From your seat, you can watch ladies clad only in their undergarments tending their flowers on their balconies, if only for a few seconds as the train creeps on by. You can watch a team score the winning goal in their soccer match and rush to celebrate by tackling the goalie. You can have small snapshots of intimate moments in people’s lives as you watch an old man sit quietly on a bench sipping his morning cup of coffee or a mother scold her children at the beach. This train helps you to forget that you are going to be late to the showing of that film in the Palais by allowing you to momentarily slip into someone else’s life for a few brief seconds.

The Dumpster

            This train acts more like a pool gutter than anything else, collecting all the trash you would rather not see while you’re trying to have a good time. A strand of hair caught in the vent blows in your direction and you to hope to the high heavens that it does not break free and float your way. Adjusting your skirt, you notice an apple core has been smashed between the seats. Leftover capsules from some passenger’s medication taken en route litter the floor and roll between your feet as the train accelerates, and the seat next to you smells faintly of urine. In front of you, there are plastic wrappers trapped in the fold-down table or, if you are lucky, a piece of gum placed haphazardly on the wall so that you have to lean away into the stranger next to you to avoid getting any on your clothes.

            Occasionally you encounter the dumpster divers, who stumble along the cars looking for treasures unbeknownst to you. It is even possible for one of these divers to dive right into your lap, mumbling something in French that you might not even understand if you spoke the language. The best method is to scoot quickly away while they crawl into the next room and startle other passengers.

The Museum

          Although all trains have the potential to become public forums for graffiti artists everywhere, museum status is reserved for a special few. You wait in line to board only to be overwhelmed by the displays that surround you as the doors slide shut. These trains have cartoons, vocabulary lessons, and, of course, obscenities scrawled into every surface the train has to offer. Scratched into windows you can barely look out, you can find initials of lovers from the days of romance when carving your names into public property is a sign of permanent affection. On the ceiling overhead, there could be passages from poets or drawings reminiscent of etchings found in old cave walls. You could walk the train for hours investigating the masterpieces of this modern museum, but as the train pulls into the next stop, you realize you have other places to be and other sights to see.

The James Bond

          Get a window seat and the French train can become your best tool for practicing secret service style surveillance. When the glare gets in the way of your viewing the scenery right out the window, focus your eyes instead on the reflection in the window and use it to spy on the lovebirds a few rows ahead who you are sure are having an intense discussion, or perhaps make out session. If you can smell that the guy a seat behind you has food, but you aren’t sure what, just pretend you are gazing spacily out across the ocean while you take a covert glance in his bag. Sometimes, if you are lucky, you can catch people doing embarrassing things like picking their nose. The train can be your best partner in crime so long as you don’t get caught and make things awkward for everyone involved.

The Rosetta Stone

          Ride it long enough and the French train has the capability to turn into your number one source for foreign language education. On a good day, you can at least hear three separate languages from Cannes to Juan-les-Pins, most likely French, German and Italian. Whether it’s because you are forced to converse when asked about the train (see excuses/conversation starter), or just as a result of sitting around long enough to listen to entire conversations between the passengers around you, both are valid and quick methods to take a crash course in daily vocabulary… or at least train-related vocabulary.

The Runway

          The aisle of the train becomes a runway for each person to do their little turn and show off what they’ve got. All sorts of people ride the train, so no matter what your style, you can be sure to see a few people you might like to try and emulate and at least a dozen others you know for sure you won’t. A few suave French teens will provide the beat for the parade of scarves, dresses, heels, hats and jeans weave their way in and out of the seats while the music blasts from their earbuds, also serving as your update on the hippest music in the French Riviera.