Dairy: America's Food Cyclops of Destruction?

One of my favorite memories of my early cheese days was the pure energy of cheesemongering at the Union Square market in NYC last summer. The hungry, excited, and often sample-greedy crowds. The love of cheese, fresh food, and yes, free samples. The questions: "What cheese is that?!" "Is that soap?!" "Do you have any cheddar?!" bombarding the stall from various indiscernible directions. And the adrenaline of being thrown into a food zoo and having to cut every piece to-order in plain view.

Now that I call NYC my home, I walk through the markets regularly. Though I am still a cheesemonger in my own right (this time in a nice temperature-controlled building), a wave of jealous nostalgia sweeps over me when I see the farmers and producers setting up their stands. Yet, something is not quite the same.

There are several new cheesemakers on the NY farmers market scene, which is wonderful. Nevertheless, the excited energy is somewhat diminished by the neatly pre-packaged cheeses I see at every turn. Even my own beloved Cato Corner is forced to either pre-package cheese (a monumental task for small cheesemakers who are seeing almost 1,000 pounds of cheese traffic per week in markets) or take cheese behind a curtain to a mobile kitchen trailer and cut away from the penetrating view of customers. I sucked at cutting cheese in front of gawking patrons, but that was half the fun for both the mongers and the customers!

New regulations in NYC have stopped cheesemakers from cutting cheese to order for customers at farmers markets. Something something, food safety. Something something, sanitation. Begin ragey rant now:

Cheese and dairy have always been the target of various ludicrous regulations. Then again, what hasn't really? You have to age it 60 days if it's raw milk. You have to store it at 40 degrees even though it ages, often for years, at ambient temperatures of 50-60 degrees. In some states, selling raw milk is like selling heroin. Cheesemakers and mongers have learned to cope with every requirement that's thrown at them. But like I've always said, every food carries a risk. When did dairy become public food enemy #1?

I've gotten food poisoning from a gyro sandwich once, but I'll still eat the hell out of a legit hole-in the-wall kebab stand. Once Applebee's made me sick, but I still go back for their maple blondies. In fact, I might be the most food poisoned fool I know, but I've never picked a category of food to whine about like this no-account Dr. Douche. How this jerkface makes the leap from a tragic E.Coli outbreak likely caused by dirty vegetables -- the leading culprit in many recent mass breakouts of food-borne illness -- to raw milk and juice baffles me.

I'll use pasteurized milk if it's all I can get, and I really enjoy many pasteurized artisanal cheeses. But I also love drinking raw milk. It's easier to digest (beneficial bacteria, as well as enzymes in milk that aid in lactose digestion for lactose-intolerant people, are killed off during pasteurization), and it tastes better. I've never gotten sick from dairy -- and I've gotten sick from a lot of foods. I've even witnessed how the animals are milked. This guy reads one article in the Seattle Times, regurgitates what he learned in his thesis program, and thinks he's an expert on small dairy producers. You sir, impress nobody. Lactating cows on small farms everywhere are crying tears of sorrow at your wholly spurious assumptions.

Sanitation is important, and I would always get my raw milk from reputable producers. You can even do your own research about the relative rarity of listeria outbreaks from raw milk. Or how campylobacteriosis is as much of a risk, if not a greater risk, in chilled pasteurized milk than it is in raw milk. You can check the sources and the CDC reports yourself, and decide to agree or disagree. It doesn't really matter to me which way you lean on the issue. You get your pasteurized milk, I'll get mine raw. You get your burgers cooked medium rare, I'll get mine medium. Just know that raw milk, cheese, and other dairy products carry risks like any other food. They are not singularly evil in any outstanding way.

Banning a product from an essential food group or installing needless obstacles for small farms and producers, instead of targeting the sanitation problems that make all foods dangerous, causes much more harm than good.

Rounding the bases to an astounding argument put out there by people who think dairy is always bad for you. There are those who choose not to eat dairy at all because of ethical reasons, and I'm not touching that. We'll agree to disagree, and you are completely entitled to that dietary choice, which I will agree to respect. But there are those who just think eating dairy will turn you into a fat, un-healthy zombie blob.

I ran across a lot of articles on how terrible dairy is when I was uncovering the similar chemical reactions in the pleasure portions of our brain induced by both cheese and chocolate. (see my Valentine's Day post). This one in particular got my rage juices flowing.

Apparently people out there were completely outraged by the "cheese industry" pushing it's "cheese agenda" on food, ensnaring people into a cycle of addiction. Last time I checked, dairy was one of our essential food groups. Last time I checked, I also didn't want to be a brittle old hag with osteoporosis. Also, last time I checked, I like extra cheese on my pizza because I think it tastes good. Not because I'm addicted to "dairy crack." I've gone days without cheese and haven't turned into a sweaty, twitchy mess, fighting withdrawal nausea on my couch. When I do enjoy cheese, I've never, to my knowledge, become a bloated, dairy stenched Jabba the Hutt, waiting for a coronary. Why did our culture start vilifying entire categories of food? Food is food. We need it, we should celebrate it, enjoy it (in moderation). Be a little European about it for god's sake.

Despite what my frustration sounds like, I'm not here to be political about all this. For the record, I do believe that there is a public safety interest in ensuring our food is produced in a sanitary manner. I'm all for initiatives that encourage healthy choices and lower health problems associated with diets. Sugary drinks will turn your kid into a fatty fat fat, and we should probably reign those in. I think disparaging said public initiatives with "food police" barbs is just a way for angry, unhealthy people to stay angry and unhealthy, guilt-free. I don't need to be eating maple blondies every day because nobody should directly or indirectly have to foot a six-figure open-heart surgery bill when I'm 50. I would prefer to help out small producers rather than continuing to subsidize large agricultural industries.

Maybe you could say I'm an equal rights foodie. I am against -- and hope more people will join me in this -- irrationally and illogically singling out entire categories of a food group as your pet enemy; sensationalizing a diet trend or a food-related tragedy as a public platform to demonize a fresh, natural food that poses no greater risk than other products, that is part of a well-balanced diet, and that many small producers rely upon to make their living in an agricultural tradition that has lasted since early civilization. Is that too much to ask for?

Note: In a previous version I was unclear in stating where raw milk sales are available (in NY state it is just at licensed farm stores; in neighboring states it is available in retail stores). This graphic clears it all up, and also lets you know states in which you can't enjoy raw milk, but your pet cat Mittens sure can. 

Steady Chasin that Cheese Curd

Adios Hwy 90. It's been real. 

I’ve come a long way from the naive cheese traveler wandering into Del Rio, half-panicked by my own preconceived notions and by all the border-town fear mongers regurgitating what they heard on the news or read in the travel section of Reader’s Digest. I remember driving the stretch of Highway 90 that dips within two miles of the Rio Grande at dusk, nervously expecting gangs of drug mules, cartel henchmen, and human-traffickers to be leaping across the road like legions of West Texas deer.  

That was 7 months ago. I’ve learned a lot since then.

Still, some things don’t change. My belongings remain mostly stored in boxes and I continue to use suitcases as bedroom furniture. As I put Del Rio behind me in my trusty CR-V, the radio couldn't have selected a more apt farewell serenade: Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again on My Own."

Because, indeed, like a drifter I was born to walk alone. And this particular lonely street of dreams has led me from the Texas-Mexico border to New York City. The unlikeliest of transitions. 

NYC -- the cradle of big dreams. Some people come for fame. Some for fortune. Some in search of love, purpose, or identity. I came here for a modest wage, relative obscurity, and dairy products.

It was the next logical and exciting step in my cheese schooling. I’ve worked with great cheesemakers. So, it was about time I finally found a great cheese retail opportunity. I told you about my failed retail search when I first arrived in Texas last Fall. Nevertheless, I found a great cheesemaking fit in BVC and used my own kitchen as a platform for productivity with home cheesemaking. 

  

I had to tap some serious ingenuity to make a cheese life for myself in the desolate West Texas desert. It took some mileage to Waco and and several cheesemaking fails in my kitchen, but I did it.

Of course, it was unsustainable. I couldn’t continue the 11-hour weekly commute for much longer. And the grocery store cashiers started to get curious about my frequent milk purchases, giving me suspicious looks as if I had developed some new way to cook up meth or Molotov cocktails with dairy.  

It was time to move on even though it would require another solo adventure. Tad would wrap things up in Del Rio over the course of the year, keeping dutiful guard over the meticulously labeled boxes I have stored in his closet.

Meanwhile as I strategized my next move, the previous year's journey came full circle. Last Fall, I arrived in Del Rio en route from my internship in Washington State with Black Sheep Creamery -- an internship that not only taught me a lot about cheesemaking and farmers markets, but also gave me the gift of an opportunity that once made my skin crawl in professional circles: networking. Through Meg and Brad, I connected with several local cheesemongers and cheese retailers, including a Seattle-based cheese institution, Beecher’s Handmade Cheese. Beecher’s incidentally was boldly entering the East Coast cheese field by opening a second branch in New York City. Even then it seemed like an exciting opportunity with a great company that is as passionate about good food as I am. Before happenstance led Tad and I to Del Rio for a temporary period, I assumed I was heading back to the East Coast after my cheese internships ended, so I expressed interest in getting involved with the new branch. Then, adventures in a border town came calling. 

Fortunately fate, good timing, and “networking” with the people I had met at Beecher’s would nevertheless allow me to grow my cheese ambitions with them. The opening of the new store had been pushed to mid 2011, at just the moment when I was ready for the next step.  And, thankfully, my year of cheese learning cast a sheen of marginal competence on me, and they took me on to the opening team. So, now I'm back on the East Coast, helping put the gears in motion for a major NYC cheese store opening. A bonafide cheesemonger in the big city. I wanted to know how deep the Swiss cheese hole goes and there’s no turning back. This is it. This is what I do. Cheesemaker. Cheesemonger. Cheese stalker – I’ve followed it everywhere; my CR-V can attest.

There are such things as proprietary secrets and non disclosure agreements I vaguely recall from law school that are usually involved with successful companies, even cheesy ones. So while there may not be much in the way of daily details anymore, don't worry. Every chapter of this cheese story seems to have developed its own voice based on the circumstance. I think we’ve grown past the details and the baby steps together. There will be discoveries to share in this chapter, just like the others. 

As I leave the last stage of the adventure, Whitesnake resonating truth through my speakers, I know one thing. If we can find cheesy happiness for the better part of a year in desolate West Texas, we can find it anywhere.