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.
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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.
