Cheese

I adore cheese.  It might not be the defining element of my passion for food, but it’s the reason I could never last as a vegan.  I’m occasionally convinced that I could make it as a vegetarian, under duress, but without cheese I would be despondent.  Vegetarian faux-cheese is not an option, as it seems to combine the least desirable traits of processed cheese without any redeeming qualities – or at least none that I’ve seen.
 
What other food than cheese has such astonishing variety of texture, character and application?  You can slice it for sandwiches or crackers, crumble it over salads or pasta, melt it for fondue, smear it on toast or eat it straight from the knife.  It can be an assertive primary flavour, or a subtle matrix that holds a casserole together.  It makes a good party even better.
 
There are at least three different cheeses in the fridge right now, because I just used up the Monterey Jack with Jalapenos making frozen burritos.  It is only the cost and the relatively high fat content of cheese that prevents me from having even more on hand, so the number seldom goes above six, unless I’m preparing for a party or there's a really good sale.
 
On New Year’s Eve, I managed to garner a few new recruits for the cult of Saint André cheese.  It isn’t a difficult task, really.  I set out a modest cheese board selection of five cheeses – a soft goat cheese from the Okanagan, a firm, wine-washed, drunken goat cheese from Spain, a pinwheel of onion-garlic red Leicester, a sliver of Shropshire blue, and a wedge of fine, fine Saint André.  I pointed them out by name to everyone in the immediate vicinity, concluding with the Saint André’s, which I pronounced ‘my very favourite cheese in the world.’  One sort of expects cheese to make something of a happy entrance at a party, but I was still taken aback by how many ears seemed to swivel my way upon those words.  My fellow cheese fiends in the crowd were alert to anything described as a favourite, and the randomly curious were interested in trying something that could wring such decisive approbation.
 
Saint André is a soft-ripened cheese that is similar in appearance to Camembert, and is produced in France at the St. André Creamery.   Its fantastic texture is partially due to additional cream being added during the cheesemaking process. Allrecipes Cooks Encyclopedia describes it as “An extravagantly rich triple-cream cheese with a mild, mellow flavor” to which I would add that the flavour is specifically buttery in nature.
 
Cheese is an almost perfect food, full of the good things that we need to live, and an enchanting variety of form and flavour.  I have always been partial to the sharp and the creamy, so my Cheddars are aged and my bleu is crumbly, and I consider Camembert a treasure worthy of hoarding.  If you like cheese at all, then try Saint André.  Take it straight from the knife, if you are bold, or slather it lushly over french bread.
 
One of my strongest memories of travelling in Europe is wandering around in the streets of Paris at a very early hour, clutching my breakfast of a length of baguette that had been split open and stuffed with overlapping slices of Camembert.  No other ingredients, just fresh bread and good cheese.  I remember the cold February wind on my face, and the grey stone of the ancient buildings in the Marais district as I walked from Place de la Bastille to the Louvre, and I remember the dripping trees lining the streets and parks, but most of all, I remember the wonderful sandwich.
 
I ate copious amounts of cheese when I was in France, yet I lost weight.  Perhaps it was the hiking, perhaps it was somehow neutralized by the red wine.  Perhaps it was all the stairs.  Since the French are notorious skippers of breakfast – few if any even bother with a croissant, and the hostels and cheap hotels offer leftover plain rolls from the day before and café au lait or chocolate as a quick hit before heading out the door – I took to stopping at a corner store on my way home in the evenings, and picking up a small piece of cheese to perk up my roll.  I soon discovered that this was a prime way to make friends of the other travellers, if only for the duration of the cheese.  I curse myself roundly for not having had the good sense to note down the strange and wonderful cheeses that I tried, as it is doubtful I would recognize them again.
 
So what’s the deal with banning raw milk cheese?  Is it banned in Canada?  Happily, in July of 1996, Health Canada withdrew its proposed amendment to the Food and Drugs Act, which would have required all cheese to be made from pasturized milk or the equivalent.  It seems that Québec’s endless fussing about English-speaking Canada’s lack of cultural sensitivity may have been partly to the benefit of all Canadians, here, although Health Canada maintains that its proposal was intended only to generate discussion, which it certainly did.  For a while, raw milk cheeses were slapped with a giant red warning label, but that seems to have passed.
 
In the United States, this handy page gives a snapshot view of the complex and bewilderingly random patchwork of state regulations regarding raw milk.   The FDA is currently reviewing its policy that allows the use of unpasturized milk to make cheese.  Gina Mallet, in her interesting, somewhat honestly alarmist book “Last Chance to Eat” suggests that Kraft Foods is a serious threat to raw milk and raw milk cheeses in the USA, as the number one producer of processed cheese and “cheese products.” She also cites Kraft's involvement with the Codex Alimentarius, an attempt at establishing a set of world standards for food by the United Nations' Food & agricultural Organization and the World Health Organization. 
 
Do you care about whether raw milk cheese is banned?  If you like Italian Parmagiano-reggiano, Swiss Emmenthaler and Gruyère, farmhouse Cheddars, or French Roquefort, yes, you do.  If your closest exposure to any of those cheeses is the green shaker of sawdust-like, dessicated parmesan, maybe not.  But have some sympathy for the rest of us, eh?  If a slice of Kraft Singles can really be left unwrapped, unrefrigerated on the counter 24 hours without growing pathogens, is it more fit to eat, or less?  I am roundly appalled that variety in cheese is considered by some to be a hallmark in the realm of culinary elitism.  Good food should be available to and enjoyed by everyone, and I take exception to the idea that someone else's limited experience and exposure should colour my gastronomic choices. 
 
I suppose I should confess that when I’m down to but a lone cheese in the fridge, it’s often a brightly orange, annato-coloured block of Canadian produced cheddar or a severely reduced chunk of Parmagiano-reggiano, although with the vagaries of recipe-following, it might be a piece of Edam, Monterey Jack or Feta.  I’m not noshing on Montrachet, Morbier, Bleu d’Auvergne or even my beloved Saint André on a regular basis – my wallet can’t quite manage it – but I’m always happy to have it as a splurge.  I feel no need to apologize for liking all-around basic cheddar.  It is versatile, flavourful, and affordable, with just the right amount of salty tang, and it makes the grand daddy of all grilled cheese sandwiches.
 
Good cheese is a blessing.  Travelling food.  One can go a long way, on cheese, and all the moreso if you also have bread and wine.
 
January 2005