On Rinds: A Musing

It's hard to believe that this innocent, virginal, mild cheese curd will grow up to be the delicious stinky monster known as the Hooligan, an award-winning washed-rind cheese. Sometime between when this picture is taken on day one and at least two months later after aging, this cheese will go through a process in which starter cultures, the air, and the salt brine begin to form a rind. For washed rind cheeses, the process includes maintenance that involves washing the rind with cold brine, which leaves my fingers numb and my sleeves smelling like concentrated ear-wax. But the final product is a clean, visually pleasing, full-flavored delight that is one of my favorite cheeses (see picture at end of post). 

Most people don't really understand the process of rind formation, which can be particularly mysterious, and in theory, disgusting. But can we eat the rind? Or better yet, do we have to eat the rind? When I first started becoming interested in artisanal cheese, I began to ask these same questions. Sometimes it's embarrassing not to know, especially when there is no available trash can and you're left holding on to the rind in your pocket like a dirty Kleenex. Yeah, I've done that. When I was in cheese school at VIAC, I asked a few of my classmates their thoughts. Even many experienced cheesemakers didn't know the right answer. The likely reason is because there is no right answer.

The rind is not poisonous, disgusting, or high in fiber. It's a natural, protective part of the cheese, formed from the same ingredients as the sweet, innocent curd. Most importantly, by the time it hits your table, the rind is far removed from all the unappetizing aging room up-keep and has been thoroughly groomed and cleaned.

Of course the flavor might not be everyone's favorite cheesy experience. In my opinion, eating rind is a matter of preference. When eating a new cheese or a new batch of cheese, I tend to eat a little rind with my second bite, but will leave most of the rest. If it's a washed rind cheese (cheeses with the soft, flexible, and often orange rind like Tallegio), I will eat more. The rind won't hurt you. It's just milk, cultures, and air, plus salt from the brine that aids in drying the outside to quickly form the protective rind cover. (With some washed rind cheeses, there is an extra ingredient such as wine or beer that is rubbed on the outside for added flavor.) If you think rind is necessary to enjoy the cheese, then eat it. If not or if you don't like the taste, then don't. Some think that it's important to eat the rind unless it's too thick or dry because 1) you paid for it by the pound, and 2) it's part of the flavor profile.

While I generally agree on those two points, especially on a washed rind cheese, I don't necessarily agree that it's necessary to eat all of it. Eating the rind with every bite can get overpowering, especially for hesitant cheese lovers. With a blue cheese, for example, the rind adds its own flavor, but the majority of the flavor profile that people look for in a blue comes from the work of the penicillium mold on the inside. Many artisanal cheesmakers also make cheeses that develop very thick, rustic-looking rinds. These are impossible to consume even though they are a substantial part of the purchase weight. I've received food in boxes before, but I prefer not to eat the cardboard even if it's included in the shipping price. 

Most people I see who try samples will throw out the rind. For your first impression of a cheese you probably want to try the part you eat the most: the interior of the cheese. I suppose eating the rind is only an absolute necessity in cheese contests when the whole flavor profile is under judgment. I don't know many consumers who eat all of the rind with every bite. But go ahead and try it, especially if you're familiar with the cheese or it's a washed rind. There's no harm in trying a bite... at least if you're a bit adventurous. If you're not, don't be shy, but please stay away from the rind. It will just freak you out and confuse you.

The Masked Cheese Hero

At the risk of complete embarrassment, I'd like to introduce to you The Provolone Ranger. I'm not a graphic designer or an artist, but these are my very rough versions of what he might look like: a string cheese character, a block of cheese character, or a human character. Clearly, if he became a permanent fixture, I would utilize the talents of someone more skilled at visual art...Kim, I'm looking in your direction.

You're talking to a twenty-something who still watches the Cartoon Network and makes herself sick from eating too much ice cream. So I love the idea of a fun, inviting cheese experience that is welcoming of the young, young-at-heart, and anyone with a sense of humor who loves all things awesome. In sum, pretentious jerks need not apply. It's delicious and it's fun, so don't be a buzzkill.  

I'm not sure if The Provolone Ranger would play a role as a cheese store mascot (via Cheesy Street t-shirts and merch) or as a stand-alone character for a comic cartoon involving cheese related tomfoolery that I create for my personal amusement. I just thought you'd like to meet him. Of course, The Provolone Ranger would ride in the Chevre-olet cheese van, with his love interest, Fun Tina, and sidekicks, Mr. Manchegoat and Camem-Bear. Too much? ... Okay, okay, you're probably right.

Union Square Farmers Market: My First Taste as a Cheesemonger

I cringe a little at the label given to the profession to which I aspire. Cheesemonger? I know monger is the term used for the dealer of certain goods to customers (i.e. fishmonger, ironmonger). But it sounds terrible. Not to mention it conjures up more commonly known negative words like war-monger or gossip-monger. Cheesemonger sounds like a shifty cheese troll who will break into your house, fight your children for their string cheese, wipe you clean of dairy, and leave fat and flatulent. If I were a kid, I'd sleep with one eye open, clutching my String-Ums. That said, I'm not sure what else to call it. Cheese dealer? No, making cheese sound like crack would scare off families. Cheese supplier? No, makes cheese sound like equipment or office supplies. Cheese fairy? Okay cheesemonger it is.

Saturday was my first day to be a legitimate cheesemonger. I had a bit of practice the weekend before in the cheese store on the farm. But I mostly observed Leslie, while I practiced wrapping pieces. I was unsure as to how much or how little customer contact I'd have at the Union Square Farmers market in New York City. Everything I had heard indicated that it would be a long, exhausting, intense day. 

I woke up at 3:30 am in order to chug enough coffee to keep me awake for the ride to New York. Mark picked me up in the cheese van at 4:30 am. Cato Corner has a weekly presence at three major Saturday NYC farmers markets, including two in Brooklyn and one in Manhattan at Union Square. The cheese van holds the cheese for all three markets and makes the rounds on Saturday morning to drop off supplies to each market. I initially thought the concept of a "cheese van" was hilariously awesome. It's a less cartoonish version of Scooby Doo's Mystery Machine, but replace the smell of smoke with the smell of chilled cheese. I'm already scheming a comic strip that incorporates the cheese van as the vehicle for the antics of my cheese mascot, the Provolone Ranger.

We arrived to set up at Union Square right at 6:30am. Almost as soon as we had set up the tent, customers were approaching to buy cheese. I was still getting lessons from my fellow cheesemongers about how to handle the knives, cut the cheese (haha get your chuckles out now), and accurately measure the pieces before cutting. The first few I cut were a catastrophe. The knives, which aren't that sharp anyway, were impossible for me to hold steady through the thick blocks. I was nervously cutting crooked pieces and pieces twice the size of what they were meant to be. I wasn't as conversant as the others on the flavor profiles of the cheese. I couldn't even tell the cheeses apart when they weren't left in the labeled cases. The customers looked at me like they had gotten a raw deal picking the newbie cheesemonger to help them. It seemed like the day would be much longer than I thought.

By the time I looked at my clock for the first time at 10am, I had begun to master almost everything I was previously screwing up. I picked up on the lingo. I figured out a technique to cut accurate pieces. Above all I was enjoying talking to customers about what they liked and the purchases they were making. I was starting to feed off the energy of the crowd and gain a little confidence. By the end of the day, I was able to cut pieces within one tenth of the pound 90% of the time. I was also able to steer the customers to a suitable cheese for whatever dish they mentioned they were wanting to cook that evening.

The highlight of my day, and the reason I've always wanted to do what I'm doing and open a cheese store some day, came after lunch. A woman with a fresh bouquet from the flower stand stopped by and cheerfully asked me about some of our cheese. I recommended a few I thought she might like and cut some samples. She made her selections. As I was handing over her change, she said "you all just brightened my day; I've got these flowers and this cheese and I'm ready to go home happy." Flowers and cheese! Could it get much better?! It made all my early morning foibles worth it, knowing I had made someone's day a little brighter with cheese helped them find.

It was a long day but I loved it. I was so happy to see and meet people as excited about cheese as I am, as well as people who were unsure about cheese who found something they love through a few samples. Not everyone was a smiling face. There were a few difficult customers, which required me to suppress the side of me that would prefer to punch rude people in the throat with reckless abandon. Still, it wasn't too hard to get over the malcontents. Most people who came by were happy people interested in cheese, from the $50 purchase for a party to the group of friends who just wanted small slices to eat with fresh bread for lunch in the park.

A few good friends who live in the city (Ambyr, Jaime, Katie) stopped by to visit and purchase some cheese. These are people who have known me for many years. I imagined looking through their eyes, and assumed it was a bit bizarre to see the person they knew from the days of yore, frantically hawking cheese at the farmers market. Seeing good friends for the first time in weeks both comforted me and helped make it all feel real. I was helping both my friends and complete strangers find a piece of joy in an alpine cheese, a young cheese, or even a stinky cheese. I was a cheesemonger.

On Saturday night, I will drink beer as a cow poops in front of me....

....is a sentence I never thought I'd use to describe my weekend. But here I am.

Let's start with the beginning of my Saturday. I came in to help with the cheese store in the morning. Every Saturday and Sunday the front room in the cheese house is turned into a cheese counter. Cato Corner fans, novices, and neighbors can come buy cheese directly from the source. I was a little nervous at first because I'm not well-versed in all the cheeses, and all I really know how to do is wrap cheese (poorly at that). But it ended up being a lot of fun. Leslie, who works the cheese store every week, was very patient in helping me learn about the cheeses. She graciously introduced me to the customers so that I wasn't just the smiling fool who folded wrapping paper like a five-year-old.

Around noon they needed my help in the cheese room. It was a fairly laid-back Saturday. Until about 4pm, I helped stir, hoop, and clean up, all while Frank Zappa played in the background.

Saturdays are my Fridays. So afterward, I hung out with the rest of the Saturday crew and toured all the pastures and barns. First stop, seeing the twin calves that were born the night before. On the way we noticed one of the young heifers, who made a reputation for herself as a troublemaker, had gotten outside the wire fence. For a solid ten minutes, I watched as Chris, one of the cheesemakers, tried to corner the heifer back under the wiring. The display caused all the other heifers to congregate on the edges and vocally cheer on their colleague in the epic battle of man vs. cow. This time cow won. We decided to inform Heather, one of the milkers, who was more adept at handling the personalities of the animals. We came back later to find that the troublemaker had taught two other heifers the same trick, and now three had escaped. After some strategic cornering and luring them with food, we managed to get them all back in the fence. Of course, there was nothing stopping them from getting back out when they wanted to play the game again.

We wandered into the pens with all the young cows, which were, as you would expect, ridiculously cute. Then we stopped in to see the newborn twins. One of the baby twins stood up on its shaky new legs and wobbled her way over to us so we could pet her. I just pet a baby cow! Awesome.

Afterward, we walked around the pastures with a couple of late afternoon beers. We walked back down for a stop in the milking room to visit the milkers with an invite for a post-work drink. To get to the milking room you have to go through the barn where all the adult cows mill around and "hang out." So depending on the number of cows that are there at any given time, it can feel like you're pushing your way to the front of a crowd at a cow concert.

I watched as they brought in the cows four or five at a time and attached the milking pump. The cleanup involved a high pressured water gun that would put the hose gun in the cheese room to shame. I was jealous.
Then one of the milkers began putting milk into half gallon size bottles for the calves. She turned to me and said something, which I thought I misheard at first.  "Do you want to feed one of the babies?" ...excuse me what?...ahem...Hell YES!

We went into the area with the babies, she pointed one out and handed me a bottle. I held it up as the baby cow came over and attacked the bottle with ferocity. Her gluttony was adorable. It was gone in maybe 30 seconds. I went over to get the next bottle and one of the older babies started following me. I was told that at a certain age while they are still very young, the cows are taken off milk and put on feed. So the milk is like candy to the young cows who don't get it anymore. This cow must have had a sweet tooth. It followed me over to the next pen and started licking at my arm and trying to get to any drips off the bottle. I had to adopt a technique of  hip checking the older baby out of the way while holding the bottle up for the younger one. I imagine pizza parties for little children are quite similar.

As I waited for everyone to finish up work, I stood outside by the entrance to the barn with my beer and noticed one of the cows staring at me very intently. I thought we were forming some cosmic cross-species connection. Then, I started to hear something that sounded like collected rain-water rapidly pouring out of a gutter. I looked down and realized, the cow wasn't trying to bond with me, but was in fact just concentrating on making a bowel movement happen. As she casually crapped her figurative pants, I just happened to be in the way of her focused gaze. It was an oddly dramatic end to an awesome Saturday.

Not so Fresh, but So Clean Clean

Cheesemaking is a bit of a paradox. I was told, and subsequently confirmed via Google, that "cheesemaker" was on an episode of Dirty Jobs. It's a bit curious to call cheesemaking a dirty job because the cheese room must be as sanitary as an operating room in order for the cheese to age properly, and most importantly, be safe to eat. Before handling anything involved in the cheesemaking process, I have to "scrub in."  I wash my hands up to the elbow, and dip my hands, arms and gloves into chlorine sanitizer. Yet, by the end of the day I feel dirty, soaked, and in desperate need of a shower--kind of like the feeling at the end of a hot multi-day outdoor summer music festival...except with less alcohol and delirium.

In addition to scrubbing in, every surface or piece of equipment the cheese touches is doused with sanitizing solution of water and chlorine before beginning the making process. You must also pass your work boots through a foot bath of sanitizer before entering the cheese room or the aging room. One of the hardest parts for me as I get used to being in the cheese room is remembering what I can and can't touch when I'm not "scrubbed in" or sanitized during the cheesemaking. 

Cleaning up after cheesemaking is also a very systematic process of lather, rinse, repeat. All the molds and equipment must be scrubbed and rinsed. The cheese vat is scrubbed and washed with hot soapy water multiple times to remove all the remaining curd. The tables are scrubbed of curd and rinsed, as is the cheese press. The walls are scrubbed and sprayed and the floors are scrubbed and hosed with a high pressure water gun to shuttle every bit of curd remnant into the drain in the corner of the room. Even the drain must be hosed to ensure no ninja curd is caught hiding in the crevices. Some items also get an additional acid wash to ensure that all residue is removed. The bulk tank, which holds the milk after milking and prior to cheesemaking, gets the same sanitize and wash treatment before and after use.

After flipping the previous night's cheese and moving it to the brine bath, my second day started with cleaning up from Thursday's sweltering cheesemaking session. Washing all of the large metal molds and equipment over a steamy basin and scrubbing the cheese vat multiple times can require just as much exertion and time as actual cheesemaking. So while the pace was a bit more relaxed, I still walked out of the cheese room with my hair matted to my face, knowing I had tackled a substantial chunk of the process.

I took my lunch break in the main house and returned to learn how to fill orders and prepare for Saturday's farmers markets. I learned the essentials of reading the orders, pulling cheese from the shelves, cutting accurate pieces of cheese, and wrapping cheese. Lots of wrapping. It was like Christmas. A delicious cheesy Christmas.

My last task of the day was a brief foray into the aging room. What I'm about to describe is the reason some people don't like cheese, as well as the reason at least affineur (person in charge of aging cheese) might be deserving of an episode on Dirty Jobs.  Don't get scared. Or if you can't control your squeamishness, stop reading. It's food. You need food to live. Most of the food you eat has been grown or made for centuries in conditions and processes we'd all likely find objectively disgusting. Beer and wine are made from ingredients that are essentially allowed to decompose. Many of the best vegetables are grown in fertilizer containing manure. That's right. Poop! You're not gonna stop drinking wine and eating salads are you?!

As you walk into the aging room, the pervasive odor of ammonia tingles your nose to life. The odor is from a combination of chemical reactions that takes place from the breakdown of protein in the cheese during the aging process. I don't mind the odor because it reminds me that the cheese is doing what it's supposed to do to be delicious. Also lingering in the air are the various bacteria cultures and molds used to age the cheese. Most aging rooms also have cheese mites, which feed on the rind and create a dust that collects on the shelves and floors. I suppose I can't hate on a bug that lives for the sole purpose of eating cheese. But seriously, cheese mites, why are you here? Get outta my way with your uselessness! My task for the day was to make the aging room fresher by cleaning the floors. I squeegeed the floors of the dust and film that had sloughed off from the rinds while one of the cheesemakers hosed all the gunk into the direction of the drains. There was a clogged drain issue, but I steered clear of solving that problem. I guess even I have my limits.

I'm won't lie; it was unappetizing. But it didn't stop me from putting blue cheese on my burger the next night.

So at the end of my second day, which was on paper less intense than the first, I still walk out feeling pretty spent. In two days, I've gone through five sets of clean clothes and have developed a lovely (and painful) red  chafing mark on my calf from the work boots. Yet, I can't wait for the next day! I've never been so excited to come into work on a weekend.

Jumping Into the Deep End of the Vat

I woke up on Thursday morning to a phone call telling me I should probably bring two pairs of clean clothes with me for the first day.  Thankfully, I can say there has been no other time in my adult life when I was warned to be well-prepared to soil myself.  To be fair, it's not as bad as it sounds. Generally, before starting a day in the cheese room at Cato Corner, you have to bring and change into a clean set of clothes to ensure everything stays as sanitary as possible.  So I had already prepared for one changing.  But I needed two pairs because Thursdays are "double" days, when both clean-up and cheesemaking take place in one day. Meaning, it would be an intensely action-packed first day on the job.

There was very little delay in jumping in when I arrived. I showed up, met Mark, the cheesemaker extraordinaire and man behind the Cato Corner cheese, introduced myself to the Thursday cheesemakers, and within ten minutes I was helping carry last night's wheels down to the brine (salt) bath in the aging cellar.  Then came a morning full of cleaning up from last night's batch. I was told cheesemaking is mostly cleaning and sanitizing. It's true, but I don't mind. Cleaning allows time to have interesting conversations and operate a high pressured water hose-gun-thing. What's not to like?

After lunch, I helped make that day's batch of cheese. I assisted as cultures and rennet were added. After some time, the milk coagulated into a giant curd gel mass from the activity of the rennet. Then, I sort of helped cut. The cutter is a metal square frame (maybe about two by two feet) with cutting wires strung through the frame. When you push it through the curd, it cuts like an egg slicer. The vat holds a lot of milk and looks like an oval, metal hot tub.  So the pressure and weight of so much curd left me struggling to push the cutter through the vat. I've never felt so weak and daunted by a food.

Once the curd is cut, I continued to rake, stir and keep the curd from clumping up. (Yes, the rake is about the size of a garden rake, except it's fancier, thicker and all-metal). I was told that I'd be starting out making their most difficult cheese. I was regaled with stories of people passing out in the cheeseroom from the heat and intensity of making this particular cheese. It didn't seem so bad, until the temperature of the curd started to inch towards 110, and eventually 112.  Meanwhile, I was leaning over the hot vat, continuously stirring and mixing for upwards of 30-45 minutes as the vat reached the appropriate temperature and the room kept getting obscenely hotter. I started to feel the beads of sweat collect under my hair net. Oh yes, I know how attractive that sounds.

I didn't pass out.  But I did have to take several breaks to cool off and wipe the sweat from my brow, lest an errant drip completely contaminate the vat or force them by FDA regulations to add "eau de Samia" to the ingredients disclosure.

Then came hooping the curd, which is essentially draining the whey and scooping the curd into molds or forms that look like wheels. The molds were then placed in the press to remove excess whey. Oh and the room was still ungodly hot. By the time things were wrapping up, it was well after 7pm. Apparently this was the longest day they had had in a while. Admittedly, I was tired. But we had a bit of a chuckle when I noted how foreign it seemed to me to have an employer be apologetic about keeping me past a certain hour. I was exhausted and I looked like a hot mess when I stopped at the grocery store on the way home. But when I left, and when I was actually thanked for a days work, it felt.....good.

Things That Are Less Lame in the Cheese World...

1) The word "networking": Previously associated in my mind with the business development term used by lawyers.
          Defined as a) the planned douchebaggery in which lawyers engage to schmooze and accumulate business "friends" in a manner only rivaled by Facebook friend-mongers, all for the purpose of b) making themselves seem capable enough to handle your legal work but in a way that says "hey I'm a high-powered smarty pants, but I'm also well-rounded and down-to-earth. Let say you and I be bros and vaca on Dewey Beach. So give me work? Pay me please?"
Synonyms: well-groomed pan-handling

I have hated using this word even when it was harmless and completely appropriate because of the images of awkward desperation I have often observed at legal events. Now it is associated with small farmers, small business owners, and cheesemakers talking to each other to find the best way to run a business and getting to know good people who are willing to help.

2) Sweating for hours at work: because you're in a steamy 115-degree room cooking and stirring cheese, but not because you are getting yelled at or expect to be yelled at for having unacceptable billable hours for the month.

3) Working a grueling, back-breaking day that starts as soon as you get to work in the morning and doesn't end until after 7:30pm. In other words, I'm tired (but in a rewarded way). So more to come on the first day as a bonafide cheese apprentice later.

Cheese School!

When I started telling people about my new plan, I was concerned that they would judge me as an irrational twenty-something who just couldn't hack it. Truth be told, there were a few people who grilled me with a tone of judgmental expectation of my failure. You know, the patronizing, "you just need more experience with the world" type line that you heard a lot when you were twelve and said you wanted to be the next Michael Jordan. But thankfully, I can count the haters on just one hand.

Still, maybe going to school for my love of cheese would make my plan sound more practical? Who's gonna hate on education?!

I had already planned to attend cheese school in Vermont because I knew it was necessary to give me the background I needed for my cheesemaking apprenticeships. But as a bonus, I thought saying I "took classes" for my new career endeavor would show people I was serious. I enrolled in the Basic Cheesemaking Certificate program at the University of Vermont's Institute for Artisan Cheese in Burlington, Vermont. It was a two-week program. So I took a week of vacation to try the the first week in February. The timing was a good way to try out my cheese plan in its nascent stages. Turns out I liked it! Confident in wanting to proceed with the cheese journey, I took the second week of classes in April.

Previously in school, I kept myself distracted by subjects like sociology, print journalism, and law, which I found fascinating but that couldn't quite offer me an outlet for my energy. I wanted something a little more kinetic and independent, and a little less rife with the politicking of newsrooms and law offices. I honestly can't think of many work environments more kinetic and less political than a cheese room. Maybe a petting zoo?

During the first day introductions, I felt like the class' token cliche. Let's start off introducing ourselves! "Tell us where you're from, if you're making cheese, how you found us, if you're getting milk from your own animals.... or if you're just a lawyer looking for a career change." Well crap! Not only are they on to my scheme because I'm obviously not the first, but my background does sound as trite as I think it does! I wanted to lie and say I had a farm with goats, or cows, or hell even squirrels ...and was making delicious...squirrel-milk cheese.....? Yeah, that wasn't going to work.

"Umm I stumbled on VIAC through creative internet research. I'm originally from Kansas (the hell if I was gonna start off being that lawyer, much less that DC lawyer. I figured softening the blow with Midwest charm would help.). Now I live in DC, where I'm a *cough* lawyer whohatesbeingalawyer. Oh and I like eating cheese. OK, who's next!"

Eventually I did feel as though I had my own identity, not as a law burnout, but as someone who was just following their passion. I found it somewhat amusing, however, that I was pegged as the cheese lawyer who would help my some of my classmates in setting up their cheesemaking operations. How many times do I have to say I don't want to be a lawyer! I guess there are worse things than being thought of as a cheese lawyer. Hey, at least someone appreciates my degree!

The first few days of cheese school were a bit rough and overwhelming. The lectures immediately jumped into pH curves, casein structure, and titratable acidity. I started to question what I was doing. My head was spinning. I thought my high school AP chemistry teacher would bust through the door any second. Teased hair, long clicky finger nails, crusty makeup and all. Thankfully she didn't. The instructors were wonderful and very patient in explaining everything clearly.

The anxiety passed. After the second day, I started to feel more comfortable with the subject matter. It seems like the answer is always pH!

Science isn't my forte, but I do remember enjoying chemistry. If the subject incorporates an item you love, it's pretty easy to get excited about it. I started to get really interested in the science behind how milk turns to cheese. The highlight of the first week was seeing all the chemistry come together in the cheese room and participating in making a batch of cheese. There is nothing more unappetizing than seeing a class of twenty people shove their hands into the cheese vat and feel around in the curd that eventually forms a block of cheese. Despite seeing that first hand, I still love eating cheese.

I enjoyed my classmates and learned a lot from them about food, dairy farming, legislation affecting small farmers, and the economics of cheese production. As is my nostalgic style, I became quite attached to my classmates and to the city of Burlington within a few days. When I came back for the second week of classes, I was a little sad I couldn't transport the same group of people back with me. For the second set of classes in April it wasn't as frigid as it had been in February. It allowed me to explore the town and eat A LOT of maple sugar cotton candy. I fell in love with Burlington, and its cotton candy, even more.

My favorite class was the Sensory Evaluation class held on the final day. If I really concentrated, I could find notes of fruit, nuts, meat, and caramel in a cheese.  Before, I thought people used those descriptions because they were pretentious jerks. But it's there I promise! Sensory evaluation is fascinating, important for marketing and sales purposes, and apparently requires continuous training and practice. I hope "practice" means continuing to eat a crapload of cheese and keeping a cheese journal with highly accurate descriptions like "smells like a goat's butt." If so, I'm one step ahead of the game.

I visited several cheesemakers while I was in Vermont. I didn't find the perfect apprenticeship fit in the first few places I visited, but I met some great people and got my first taste for what a cheesemaking apprenticeship would be like. At first cheese school was a little demoralizing. I didn't know if I was doing the right thing. But I got through the tough parts, re-kindled my passion, ate some great cheese, and met some great people. It was a good start to my cheese journey and a good wake-up call that it won't always be easy on Cheesy Street.

How I Got Here

This might sound familiar, perhaps even a little cliche: a young professional in a big city working at a high-pressure corporate job who hates said job (therefore, refuses to be a superstar employee) has a radical epiphany, decides to quit (lest she get fired soon anyway), shreds her business cards, gives away all her suits and business casual attire, and moves to a farm in rural America to live the pure life. Just so we get this out of the way now: that is not me. Yes, on paper it sounds like me. But I didn't end up here because I burned out, became a hippie, or wanted to pursue a new life philosophy. I ended up here due to a much simpler motivation: because I realized it was the choice I should have made all along. 

Dreaming has never been hard for me. I've dreamt up many vocations that I know would fit my personality and that I would enjoy doing. It was the doing that I found baffling. There wasn't an exact moment I knew how or what to "do."  It was a slow process of subconsciously absorbing the message that, fail or not, at least I tried to pursue a dream versus settling for none. My lesson was well summarized at my good friend's wedding ceremony this weekend. Just as I was zoning out and waiting for the next cue to stand, the priest delivered a message that, though seemingly wildly unrelated to marital bliss, caught my ear:  The first basic step to finding something fulfilling is to recognize that collecting status markers and achieving our way to who we are is never going to work. Similarly, when I removed the pressure of conventional notions of success and advancement, I found it a lot easier to listen and follow my real passion. After all, it was just common sense. I was not happy in the types of jobs I had steered myself into. The prestige of a six-figure salary meant nothing, and my success in law school never spit me out to any place I wanted to be. So why not try something I've thought for years would make me happy. Writing and cheese!

The best part is, I'm confident that I can use something I love to bring others who visit Cheesy Street a little joy as well. 

It was a blessing in disguise that the terrible economy brought out the worst in people and in the legal business within my first year in the professional world. I started to get angry and see the practice of law as a circular, frustrating, sedentary, and often solitary exercise in winning small meaningless, and occasionally morally repugnant, battles. The tough times forced me to examine what I wanted early and not let too much "life" pass me by.

Admittedly, there are many meaningful and rewarding avenues for lawyers to make a living. Many of my friends are bright, happy lawyers. I'm a ragey law hater and even I still find interest in areas like First Amendment and agricultural policy. I suppose it is just a matter of fitting into the daily mold of a particular job, which I did not.

I started looking for government jobs, thinking perhaps I just hated private sector. It wasn't long before I completely stopped looking at the "legal" category on USAjobs, preferring the more active jobs in the "investigative" and "arts/public affairs" category. I had uncovered a personality disconnect in the careers for which I was trained to look. I needed something more creative, hands-on, and socially interactive.

On a sunny Saturday afternoon, as I'm carrying two handfuls of Target bags back from the metro stop, my boyfriend calls and tells me I should be a cheese apprentice. Immediately I assumed cheese apprentice was a job he made up. It felt a lot like each Christmas when he suggests I would be an exceptional member of Santa's North Pole workshop. I get really giddy for a second before realizing that it will never happen for obvious reasons that I still refuse to admit. But after careful internet research, I discovered it was a real position and a wonderful way to learn about the cheese industry.

At first, it sounded like a good plan to get my head straight after a year and a half of the self-esteem and morale beat-down I had received at the hands of Big Law. With more research, I started to connect that plan with my dream to open a fun, approachable cheese shop. I stumbled on cheesemaking classes at the University of Vermont's Institute of Artisan Cheese (VIAC), researched the best American-made artisanal cheeses, read about cheese store owners, and spoke with and visited experienced artisanal cheesemakers.

Everything fit together as a way to integrate myself into the industry. I needed to know more about cheese other than I like to stuff my face with it.

After attending VIAC, I committed to two apprenticeships. The first will be at Cato Corner in Connecticut for the summer, and the second is with Black Sheep Creamery in Washington state for the fall. After that I will look for further avenues for exploration and experience in the retail world.

It's a risk, not just because of the financial ramifications, but also because this might not end up being exactly what I wanted or thought it would be. Maybe I will realize in a few years that opening a business isn't in the financial or strategic cards for me. Maybe the road will bring me to a slightly different destination. But at least I've learned the types of vocations for which I'm better suited.  More importantly, at least I can look back and say I tried something I've always wanted to try. Free from significant responsibilities and having widdled down my student debt, it is now or never for me to give cheese a shot.

So I'm diving all in. "Rule 76"! No back-up plan, no fall-back. It's all cheese, all the time!

Welcome to Cheesy Street

I believe, unflinchingly, that cheese makes any food experience better. Midwesterners often feel the same way about ranch dressing. If you're from the Midwest and you refuse to admit having at least once dipped your pizza crust in ranch or uttered the phrase "Everything tastes better with ranch," then you're a shameless liar. Still others feel the same way about bacon. Though I occassionally flirt with a bacon obsession, "nature's meat candy" is only my mistress. Cheese is my true love. There are few things that I find more glorious than cheese. If cheese is involved, I'll cross all bounds of decorum to partake to the fullest extent. At italian restaurants, when the waiter comes around with the fresh grated parmesan and says "tell me when," several awkward moments will pass before I let the poor server stop furiously grating away at the block. Generally I say "when" out of guilt, not because I've actually received enough on my plate.

I'm not a cheese elitist. A cheese fanatic? Definitely. In college I used to "spice up" the bland, dry chicken breasts served for dinner with two handfuls of bulk-bought, shredded salad bar cheese. I would melt a heaping mound of it on top of my sad piece of meat in the microwave. One handful of the white mozzerella-like stuff and one handful of the shockingly orange cheddar-like stuff. The color mosaic on my plate made me happy. The taste: vastly improved. I lived in a 50-person communal style dorm where everyone regularly noticed my habit and either laughed in mock amusement or gasped in horror. Every time. Apparently doing the same thing for almost every meal did not make it less weird. Point being, the cheese I doused on everthing could hardly even be called cheese. But it was still delicious to me. I used to say I hated Velveeta-type "cheese products," just to give the impression that I had a cheese palate. Soon even those boundaries came down. On November 1, 2001, I squirted a generous spiral pattern of canned Easy Cheese onto a Ritz cracker at the urging of my college roommate. With much hesitation, I put the whole cracker in my mouth and chewed. I heartily approved. Several more cans of Easy Cheese would be bought that week. A few weeks later, I had my first ever serving of instant mac & cheese. I sat in the dining hall and let the aching feeling of a childhood deprived wash over me. There was joy in the exploration....the new culinary combinations.

I started getting serious and exploring with more imported and artisanal cheeses. Then came the holidays. Every birthday and Christmas, loved ones would feed my obsession with various cheese accoutrements and books on cheese. I stumbled upon a vast new world of delicious cheeses and the love grew exponentially. I... just... love cheese. I've at least appreciated every variety I've tried. (Except American cheese. I'm sorry, but that demon cheese can stay out of my face).

But let's be honest; most of us developed our love for cheese from the humble beginnings. Mac and cheese, lasagna, pizza, even Easy Cheese. I'd bet that many cheese lovers started the love affair in the same manner I did--preferring our cheese melted and covering other food items. And that's okay. Cheese aficionados and newbies alike can recognize that the comforting taste of ball park nachos is often as delightful as a perfect gruyere. The point is to find joy in venturing outside of your comfort zone as much or as little as you want. Go ahead try that manchego! Raw milk morbier? Get crazy! But only if you want to. Good cheese (the classy stuff) doesn't have to be intimidating. Cheese stores should be inviting places where even the timid cheese lovers feel welcome.

In a few days, I will trade in my hastily chosen professional life for the life of a cheese apprentice. I've always wanted to open a cheese shop and write. It took some detours, but I grew the backbone to risk following both of my passions. To do this right, I need to learn a lot about cheese: varieties, production, sensory profiles, quality, distribution. From May to November, I'll be meeting as many people in the industry as possible and working with artisanal cheesemakers in Connecticut and southern Washington state. So begins my hopeful "cheese career." If a Cheesy Street store comes to fruition in a few years, it will be a place designed to make new and intimidating cheeses seem approachable and fun. I want you to be able to walk into my store, explore it, take a gander at the stinky washed rind cheese that smells like feet, and ask questions.

Welcome to Cheesy Street: a place where all ages, levels and varieties of cheese-love have a home!