The Secret Language of Cheese
In May 2018, three weeks before our departure for France, I found myself standing in the refrigerated aisle at Trader Joe’s selecting cheeses to serve at a small gathering. As frequent travelers, Kevin and I perpetually said farewell to the people we love. Leaving used to make me sad. Now, instead of breaking into tears, I break out platters of cheese and rip into bottles of wine. A party can be a great panacea for grief.
Out of habit, I put my hand on a thick triangle of St. André triple cream Brie. A nano-second after I extended my arm, I yanked it back. As someone heading to France for an extended period, it occurred to me that perhaps I should approach cheese a bit more consciously. After all, what did I really know about ripened milk curds?
I knew I preferred triple cream to double and considered single cream a complete rubbery waste of calories. When paired with a grapefruity Sauvignon Blanc or Sancere, a tangy Chèvre has been known to bring me to my knees. My love affair with ripe bleu cheese—the more veins the better—began in childhood. At age five, I craved all things bleu. My desire to consume chunky Roquefort salad dressing the way others eat soup raised more than a few eyebrows. This extreme devotion to blue veined cheeses—Stilton, Roquefort, Gorgonzola, and so on—alerted my parents early on that I was not an average child. A fact confirmed at age six, when I turned my nose up at Hostess Ding Dongs in favor of celery sticks painted with a thick layer of Dijon mustard.
As I stood before that shrine of cheese on a Wednesday afternoon, I came to a chilly awakening about the gross limitations of my palate. I might possess an appreciation for gastronomic excellence, but I suddenly realized I was, by and large, under-informed about food. The fountainhead of my culinary knowledge came from the kitchens of my mixed European ancestry. Like my mother, and her mother, I enjoyed cooking, but aside from the odd amateur class and a semester of home economics in the seventh grade, I had no formal food education. My mother, who grew up in Pasadena, often claimed she once met Julia Child. However true, I did not consider something I could add to my culinary resume.
Standing in the refrigerator aisle, I understood the hypocrisy of parading myself as a foodie when I actually know so little. I felt ashamed of my own ignorance.
I had an unexpected urge to know cheese—to go beyond the surface, to acquaint myself with molded curds in a meaningful way. I felt like Julia Roberts in the movie Notting Hill: just a girl standing in front of an aisle of cheese asking to have a relationship with it. I could not pinpoint the origin of this peculiar longing but, at that moment, something in me drew a line in the sand. In future, when I reached for slabs of cheese, I vowed to ensure my grasp was better informed.
With my hand over my heart before a dozen wedges of parmesan and at least four fellow shoppers, I pledged to get up close and personal with cheese. I vowed to take the time in France to stand eye-to-eye with the doe-eyed donors of cream, to stroke their soft muzzles, and to walk beside them in the grassy pastures of Normandy. I promised to talk to cheese makers and mingle with cheese mongers. I promised to heave myself into the history, geography, and culture of this beloved substance. If cheese had a secret language, I wanted to know it.
My grasp of the French language was probably a lost cause, but at least I would learn to speak Fromage.