Road Trip! (Part 3): Reflections on Home -- Kansas City & Omaha

After a couple months into my cheese internship and away from the law firm, a friend of mine who had left the firm four months before me asked if I felt like I was back to my normal self. Had I shaken the law firm off me? I more or less understood what he meant by that vague query. It’s the type of question that anyone who has wasted years in a dehumanizing, dead-end venture would understand: law firm, telemarketing, corporate drudgery,…heroin, prostitution, what-have-you.  It had been about six months since he had left the firm and was glowing in his assertion that he finally felt like himself again. Only two months out, I was less certain.

How will I know when I’ve fully regained my confidence, assertiveness, inquisitiveness, social charms, or hell even my basic desire to socialize, which had been slowly whittled away? At what point am I my whole self again? Most importantly, what does it take to get back there? For my friend it simply took time and fully immersing himself in his one passion, music….and to a lesser extent, copious amounts of PBR.

The time component is a given, and mostly out of my control. Sure, one of my passions is cheese, and immersing myself in that dream and other worthwhile endeavors will do the trick too. My first foray into the world of cheese on the east coast most definitely helped revive my spirits. When I visited DC, it was a common refrain to hear old friends from work say how happy, refreshed, or “good” I looked. But I was really anticipating this road trip to the west coast to finish the job in restoring my psyche.

Another friend of mine once pontificated that something about a road trip is especially therapeutic after a trying time in your life. It’s that sense of letting the distance of the journey put all the worry behind you, venturing into new and exciting adventures and letting your car sift out the dirty wounds and memories to the pavement with each passing mile.   

After leaving Detroit, his theory starts to make more sense to me, perhaps simply because there are so many miles of nothing on the interstate that self-reflection is required to pass the time. As I got farther away and started entering new areas of the country previously unseen to me, I started to remember less of what I had left behind in DC and grew more curious of what lay ahead.

Another thing happened as I entered the Midwest, the mid-way point and, more importantly, my home. I stopped in Kansas City to attend a good friend’s wedding and Omaha to visit my parents (secretly hoping my dad would refill the gas in my car).  I didn’t do any of the typical road trip activities I did elsewhere while I was in Omaha and Kansas City, even though there was a lot I hadn’t seen: the Jazz Museum, the World War I Memorial etc. Instead, I simply visited places where I could surround myself with people who knew me when…when I was really me, that is. I was near family, sleeping in my old bedroom decorated in 1990's-era X-games posters. I was near friends who are practically like family—friends who have known me for anywhere between 13 and 5 years and likely have many embarrassing stories to tell, which I would proudly let them share.  For some people going home is suffocating and reminds them of the person they've been trying all these years to shed. For me, it’s hard not to feel like yourself when you’re around the people who know and love you best.

…Oh and eating a Z-man at Oklahoma Joe’s helps too.

(A representation, by no means all-inclusive, of people who help me feel normal again. To those not pictured, you're still a part of this post.)

Oh Z-man, you're all that
a barbecue sandwich should be.
I'll never cheat on you again
...unless it's at Chap's Pit Beef in Baltimore. 

Road Trip! (Part 2): Detroit

Seriously, what day is this? Nineteen states, one District, and four timezones later, I'm woefully behind on keeping everyone apprised of my galavanting. I had every intention of doing contemporaneous updates as I drove across the country, but the time allotted for that quickly evaporated. So let's catch up.

The day after leaving Cedar Point we swung up to Detroit, Michigan to take a gander at America's urban graveyard. I've been to Detroit on a community service trip before, but Tad has been yearning to visit for a long time so I indulged him. He has a soft spot for castaway cities. I'm not sure what a full weekend, or even lifetime, in Detroit would look like, but we packed in a lot of variety into our one day there. By that evening, Detroit had squirmed it's way into our hearts with its decrepit charm. 

The day began gloriously: chili dogs for breakfast! Detroit has an odd obsession with Coney Island and Coney Island style hot dogs. Every block, there are vacant buildings and at least one busted looking Coney Island hot dog spot. We did some research and went to what was reputed to be the best one, Lafayette Coney Island. We were unabashedly the only ones in the joint eating chili dogs and fries at 10am. I don't want to be a traitor because I love Ben's Chili Bowl in DC, but this was a great chili dog. The dog couldn't beat Ben's half smoke, but the chili was superior. 

The one thing I knew I wanted to do for sure was visit the Motown Museum. I didn't know what to expect, but this turned out to be my favorite part of the day. I was impressed, in equal parts because our tour guide was so awesome and because the house was so well-preserved in the face of the riots and economic destruction that the city has seen. But it was also inspiring and kind of eerie to stand in the very garage that Berry Gordy turned into a recording studio that changed the music world. We were standing in the same spot, preserved for all this time as it was, where the Temptations, the Supremes, Edwin Starr, Stevie Wonder, Little Richard, and the Jackson 5 had all recorded and sang their way to greatness. 

From Motown, we ventured outside of Detroit city limits to Farmington Hills to visit the best arcade ever.   Marvin's Marvelous Mechanical Museum, discreetly tucked away behind a suburban strip mall, makes Dave and Buster's look like a crack house and going to Chuck E Cheese sound as fun as playing Big Buck Hunter at the front entrance of Wal-Mart.  Most arcades follow the same formula and their greatness is usually defined by the level of variety and scuzziness. Marvin's really thinks outside the arcade box. Dimly lit, with manequins, lighted signs, and other crazy crap on the ceilings and walls, it was fun just to stare up at it all and spin around the room. They had your usual arcade games: Time Crisis, skeeball, Pacman, DDR, race car games, lots of pinball. Yet, whoever Marvin is apparently also likes collecting antique fun-house style, kitschy macabre or satirical mechanical wonders from England. Drop in a quarter and see wooden puppets recreate an execution. Fifteen cents to see a puppet sex change. The best were the interactive games. My favorite was a machine that was once housed in the Tower of London prison, which tested your fright factor with fake razorblades and rats attacking your hand.   Have your fortune told by a Chinese puppet, watch a drunk puppet vomit, and let a fake spider make you shriek by jumping out and tickling your palm. Arcade's will never be the same for me. 

After Marvin's, we headed to Alinosi's, home of the best Spumoni ice cream...or so I'd read. When I was a kid, I used to love ordering Spumoni in Italian bakeries simply to see the brightly colored layers. Now, I've come to really appreciate the flavors that come together. A combination of rum raisin, chocolate and pistachio ice cream form layers of an ice cream brick, with servings sliced thin like an all-ice cream cake piece. If trafficking of ice cream bricks ever became its own drug trade, I'd be the first mafioso on that frontier. Alinosi's ice cream was awesome! For preservation purposes, they sold their Spumoni in the store in scoop form instead of slices, but it didn't detract from the flavor. If not for the lunch that was soon to follow, I would have tried a sundae too. 

Don't be deceived by its appetizing
meat. This sandwich will steal
your soul. 

For lunch, we went to Slow's Barbecue, which was the only really disappointing part of my day. Not only did I ruin my appetite for the Kansas City barbecue that would follow on our next stop, but it also did a number on my digestive system. I ordered a brisket sandwich, while Tad ordered a pulled pork with cole slaw sandwich. Any idiot can make good pulled pork, which is why most barbecue places have it. So his sandwich was great. I was belligerently confused when I bit into mine. My brisket was an unnecessarily fatty mess with a frighteningly bizarre onion marmalade condiment and the most god-awful shredded gouda. Just thinking about that sandwich now makes me gag. I tried to give it a second chance and continued eating. With each bite I got sadder and angrier. A perfectly good cow wasted on this. This food had so much potential until some bumbling chef came up with this half-assed concoction. The worst part was that the sandwich had a lasting effect on my stomach and my barbecue psyche...like a brisket hangover. I'll just say my appetite is still not back with its usual vigor, and I avoided disaster and frequent stops during the 13-hour car ride the next day by sleeping and keeping Pepto and baby wipes at the ready. 

Bowling at Garden Bowl,
a few blocks from
Comerica Park

I fought through a terrible stomach ache to finish off the day with bowling at a bowling alley that had been open since 1913 (because apparently no business would dare open in Detroit since the 50s), a visit to a dive bar (where thankfully PBR was not their hipster beer option), and taking in a Tigers baseball game (with a spectacular view of buildings, many vacant, in the Detroit skyline). 

Some of the rumors about Detroit are true. Driving into downtown on a workday morning seemed eerily easy for a functioning city with tall buildings and almost a million inhabitants. Where were all the office workers? The streets were wide and empty, and there were many areas that did feel like a ghost town. The old train station was a burnt out shell of it's formerly majestic self, but still an architectural remnant of and testament to what the city once was and could have been. Old Victorian manions stood boarded up on vast lots that had regrown native prairie grass.  It requires a little hunting, but there is enough to discover in Detroit that makes it a city worth visiting and a history worth saving.

Old train station

Signs of what once was

Signs of new life

Road Trip! (Part 1): Cedar Point and Cleveland

Don't be alarmed, I still have plenty of cheese related adventures. But for the next two weeks I'll be regaling you with stories of my roadtripping adventure through thousands of miles of Americana to get from cheese internship adventure one on the east coast to cheese internship adventure two on the west coast. An adventure sandwich, if you will.

Because of time and money constraints, I can't rationally make zig zags through the country. Therefore, I won't be able to stop everywhere I want. But nothing will keep me from my first stop: CEDAR POINT!!! 

I've been wanting to go to Cedar Point for years. Finally, a drive through Ohio and time on my hands would make the dream happen. Because scuzzy hotels in Sandusky were able to charge ridiculous prices for their proximity to Cedar Point (and hell, why shouldn't they, Sandusky doesn't have much else going for it), Tad and I decided to stay midway between Cleveland and Sandusky to save money. We took some time the evening we arrived to check out Cleveland...because I could. It was a Sunday night, so I didn't expect to see a lot of signs of life downtown, but I was sorely mistaken. Puerto Rican Day parade was hoppin! The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame was actually really great too, but I'm a sucker for musicology. I've always thought that if cheesemongering doesn't work out, I'd like to be an expert in 90s music nostalgia. The hotel was really close to a park and beach on Lake Erie. In the evening I roamed the beach at dusk, which was shockingly clean and picturesque for what I've heard about Ohio's rust belt. The beach's only refreshment stand was an ice cream booth called the Honey Hut. My evening was complete. In sum, Cleveland doesn't suck like people say it does. 

My excitement threatened to keep me up late that night, but I knew I had to get to bed early so I could wake up and get to the park just as it opened and beat the lines. Monday would be less crowded than a weekend, but I didn't want to bank on it. The park opened at 10am. At 9:35, every car I saw on the road leading to the park's causeway was competition, threatening my spot in line for the first roller coaster. You will not beat me to the ticket booth Dodge Caravan! Your eagerly cute children will not play to my sympathies! I calmed down eventually. 

As we drove down the causeway, I could see the park's fantastically big coaster frames rising up in Lake Erie's haze. I stared wide-eyed, and like a child watching a fantasy movie, whispered "Woah." I might have drooled a little.

First drop on
Millenium Force

A substantial crowd of people had arrived to the park just as it was opening. We waited for them to open the gates immediately after they played God Bless America at 10am exactly. The crowd didn't seem moved by the patriotism. Everyone was waiting to stampede. 

We had a game plan to knock out our top four coaster picks first before the lines got too long. Onward speedwalking to the Millennium Force! Shoving aside children and tripping teenagers. The line for the first coaster was already about an hour long when we made it there. The second coaster, the Maverick, had an hour and a half long line. Getting there early seemed to have only minimal advantage as far as wait times go.  For those planning Cedar Point strategy, the crowds on a Monday actually seemed to tire of exhaustion by the end of the day, making many lines much shorter in the afternoon. But the lines for the three most popular rides (Millenium, Maverick, and Dragster) were always long, so you might as well get them knocked out first while you're still fresh and excited. 

Maverick

95-degree Maverick drop

The Millennium Force was the coaster you could see from the distance with the tallest initial climb. We slowly crept up the hill to beautiful views of Lake Erie. I enjoyed the majestic sight by rocking back and forth, mumbling, "ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod." Then freefall. Awesome. After that ride, we immediately went for the Maverick, the steepest drop in the entire park. In fact, the first drop is steeper than straight down at 95 degrees, briefly curving back in on itself. The line was by far, the longest in the park. I now understand why. The Maverick, was the. best. roller coaster. ever. exclamation point. My face was so rocked off after that first drop and subsequent twists that someone could have thrown up in my face and I wouldn't have cared. 

We quickly went to the Top Thrill Dragster to discover it was shut down temporarily for the day with an indefinite re-opening. So we skipped to the Magnum XL-200, which was the fastest and tallest roller coaster in its day in the 80s. It seemed to be apologetic for no longer holding that title, but I still thought it was fun. On the walk to lunch, I saw the Dragster just started running again. We quickly ran back, knowing that the lines would be short until people caught on to the re-opening. 

Dragster madness

The Dragster was the one coaster that really tested my nerves. It was a short 20-second ride. But instead of just seeing a car full of screaming people whiz by, you see all of it. First the car idles, until it shoots off to 120mph, zooms straight up in the air, dangles over an upside down U-shaped curve, and falls straight down. Then, as the car eased back in, you could see the riders startled looks very clearly. Every single person on the ride had hair that had been blasted back and carried one of the following three expressions: laughing maniacally, on the verge of tears, or like they were in some sort of post-coital glory. Some people high-fived. I'd never seen car after car so consistently blown away with any ride. Watching this repeatedly while waiting in line really had my pulse racing and put me in a semi-feigned panic. At least I was assured of its awesomeness. The anticipatory wait before the blast off started building tension. Green light. SCREAM. The initial blast off was definitely the best part, but the whole thing had me addicted. I wanted to ride again, but the line had grown too long. We luckily didn't wait much in line, but it's usually at least an hour. It's totally worth waiting for the short ride at least once.  

The Dragster and Maverick were my two favorite rides. The Maverick was the best classic roller coaster ride, while the Dragster was a completely unique crazy crap-your-pants thrill ride experience. 

We only rode four coasters before lunch at 2pm, but we were hopeful that we'd finish the rest before the park closed. The rides were rated on a scale of 1 to 5 to indicate their intensity. Our strategy was to ride all the thrill-y-est 5 rides first. Maybe if we felt like putting our little girl panties on, we'd ride the lamer 4 rides before we left. 

As the afternoon stretched into late afternoon, the park-goers were showing signs of exhaustion, over-excitement, and heat-induced poor judgment. Sweaty dudes started to show and emit signs of ripeness. Promiscuous jail bait started to take off layers of clothing...and as far as I could tell none of them were Miley Cyrus, so they had no business doing so. I saw one girl escape near disaster when she puked red snow cone after coming off the Raptor. A few moments earlier and she would have either puked in the ride or puked on the line of people waiting below the stairs from which she was exiting. In fact, I started noticing several puddles of brightly colored vomit as the afternoon lingered. We soldiered on. 

Wicked Twister

Mantis

We rode all the wooden roller coasters, which I generally don't like because of the bumpiness. But surprisingly, I really liked these. My brains didn't hurt at all. I also really loved the Wicked Twister, which was shaped like a twisted bowl shape, and shot you backward and forward in several twists. I enjoyed the Raptor and Mantis, but they weren't my favorites. Both were the type of ride where you can't really see in front of you, which I think detracts from the thrill. On the Mantis you stand with your legs braced on a platform, while the Raptor is a leg-dangling coaster. By the end of the afternoon the wait times were generally 45 to 30-minutes, so they were both definitely worth the short wait. The only ride that was a bit disappointing was the Corkscrew, which had a couple somewhat thrilling loops and ended prematurely. We walked right up to it, so it's only worth riding at the end of the day when there is a short wait. 

By the end of the day, we rode all but two of the rides rated a "5," including some that were not coasters like the free-fall tower ride and giant swing ride. The only 5's we skipped were a log-type ride because we didn't want to get wet and a spinning gravity ride that seemed like a tired carnival ride. 

Lebron

One notable moment occurred as we were passing the Pop-a-Shot basketball game where you can win a stuffed animal. We saw a crowd gathering around the game. "Oh look a basketball game. Who's everyone staring at? Lebron?" Sarcasm assumed...oh wait, ummm...yeah...that's actually Lebron James. He was playing the game with a star-struck little boy, surrounded by his posse with a bunch of police standing around to make sure nobody in the Ohio crowd knifed him I assume. 

Approximately 13 roller coasters, one celebrity sighting, two sunburned shoulders, and a souvenir mug later, I left happy and dehydrated. I longingly watched as the shadows of the mammoth coasters faded behind the car  as we drove off two hours before the park closed at 8pm. Cedar Point, you were everything I hoped you would be. I hope we meet again. 

(Click on Thumbnails to enlarge all pictures)

Mean Streak wooden coaster

This guy made out like a bandit at one of the carnival games

Swings, my favorite playground experience, to the EXTREME

I was REALLY excited

Mini donuts please Tad, cheese curds please me...
but at the moment all we wanted was water

End Act 1

The summer is officially over for me. Onto the next stage. I've said my goodbyes to Connecticut and the wonderful people I worked with over the last three months. Tomorrow is day 1 of my cross country trek to Washington state and Black Sheep Creamery. I've had three days back in D.C. to fully reflect on my nostalgia and experiences at Cato Corner.

Lesson one: I'm ridiculously glad that I found my way to Cato Corner and that they were kind enough to take on a beaten down former lawyer who knew nothing about making cheese. I really can't imagine a better experience. I've said to friends in the last couple days that I feel so lucky to have ended up there. I had a chance to do everything. Aging, selling, making, milking...cleaning. I learned from people who are really good at what they do, and were great teachers to boot. They went out of their way to make sure I was learning everything I wanted to learn and put me in contact with other cheese people in the area that I wanted to meet. They encouraged me and trusted me with responsibilities; I was able to wipe off and repair most of the pieces of confidence and self-worth that the law firm crapped all over. You've read my descriptions of the highs as well as the lows. So I'm not trying to be overly laudatory for any gain, nor am I being excessively rosy. My summer seriously rocked my face off.

Lesson two. Connecticut is great. I never had much of an opinion about the state, good or bad. I just figured it was one giant NYC suburb. But there is so much to see and explore in a compact package. It's now home to some of my favorite foods (favorite pizza, favorite ice cream, second favorite sandwich). Beautiful state parks, great food, cute colonial houses...ominously towering casinos rising out of pitch black tree lined state highways. It's as peaceful or as exciting as you want it to be. Each town has it's own personality, and for most, it's not all blue bloodedness. Connecticut really does have character. I would genuinely be happy to end up there for a visit or longer again some day.

Lesson three. People are great. The customers were always happy. Everyone I met in the industry was so welcoming of my curiosity. Coming from a bleaker environment, I forgot what basic kindness looked like. Suddenly I remembered that people, on the whole, are really happy to help and excited for your success, particularly if they sense you're doing something you really love. I had tons of encouragement and kind words thrown at me when I talked about how and why I ended up with my hand in a cheese vat.

Lesson four. I really love cheese -- for more than just eating it. I appreciate good food on a completely different level now. I'm more certain now that I want to open a cheese store or work with cheese/delicious food in some way. I'm not sure what will end up being the best fit for me in the end, but at least I know I'll love whatever it is.

Lesson five. I love baby animals.

On my last day they knew I'd enjoy a pizza party at lunch
 and an ice cream feast at the end of the day.  It's like they're on to me somehow. 

Drunk and Cheesy

On my last weekend at the farm, we geared up to sell over half a ton of cheese. The weekend of June 30-31 was jokingly referred to as "the big show." In addition to the standard New York City and Connecticut markets, we were attending a few once-a-year festivals that often exceed some of the weekly markets in traffic. In total, we had pulled and wrapped over 1,100 pounds of cheese for our big market/festival weekend.

I would be working one of those seasonal festivals: The Connecticut Wine Festival. The Festival would take place over both Saturday and Sunday, with an estimated crowd of between ten- and fifteen-thousand people each day....most would be drunk.

Crowds were two to three people deep
at the booth all afternoon

As I've said before, if I had to pick a favorite task of all the responsibilities I've had this summer it would be working at farmers markets or the farm store where I have face-to-face interaction with customers and a chance to see the genuine pleasure and joy they derive from a delicious food (all the better when the food is something I helped create). Yet, the wine festival was unlike working at any other market, and at times would push the limits of my stamina and patience. People didn't arrive at the wine fest with the goal or mindset towards buying and discovering new foods. There were, of course, many who did enjoy and appreciate the specialty food offerings that could be paired with their wine purchases. But most others were there to get their drink on.

The effects of an afternoon of drinking and wine tastings created two crowds of people. The first were the extremely patient and friendly people who's wine induced carefree attitudes allowed them to calmly wait out the big pushy crowds of people in order to make their purchase. I really really appreciated these people. The crowd was non-stop from noon to seven. It was 4:30 p.m. before I even got a chance to take a break and eat.  But unlike, at a busy market like Union Square, people were less familiar with the cheeses and more keen on sampling every cheese. So providing individualized and orderly attention to each customer was close to impossible. I was saved by the people who were willing to wait calmly until I had chopped up enough mini samples to dole out into the unending glut of outstretched hands before they themselves asked for their next sample and eventually made their purchase.

Then there were the impatient people emboldened in their righteousness by an afternoon of drinking. A few would assume I was ignoring them if I couldn't give them a sample of what they asked for immediately despite seeing the crush of people I had to deal with. But most simply were in a "tasting" mindset and would crowd around the table, holding their hand out, completely unaware of what they were sampling, forcing them to yell "what type of cheese is that" at me. At a normal market, people will come up, try a couple cheeses, pick their favorite, purchase, thank me, go about their merry day. The structure and orderliness to the service I can provide flows from that system. But there were times when the wine fest was more like a scene out of an upper crust Connecticut re-make of Oliver. All I saw were hands begging for more as I frantically cut up tiny samples of the next cheese.

I don't know if there was something I could have done to create some sort of system or order, or if, in fact, my helpfulness was lacking. But I suppose it was just the nature of the event.

All that said, I did have a great time. It was a completely different beast of an event. The Wine Fest had, let's say, more character than most other markets. And, while at times annoying and stressful, for the most part it made for a really fun way to spend my last weekend. I always love the constant energy of having such large crowd, and I really enjoyed the people I had a moment to talk to. I appreciated the people who kindly told me we were doing a good job when they noticed how frantically we were working. Even better were the people who just wanted to make sure we knew how much they loved our cheese. Despite the crowds, there were faces and customers I remembered when they returned to the booth. One gentleman noticed my Kansas hat. He went to KU many decades before my time and played basketball there. We exchanged a Rock Chalk and reminisced about our alma mater. Good times. There were many people who were excited and happy to fight the crowds to discover a new cheese, and I loved making their hazy weekend afternoon a little more delicious.

Okay okay, but one last rant: I noticed something on this particular weekend...women in their late 40s in Western Connecticut need to cool it with the plastic surgery. Not so much because half a dozen operations makes your face look way more jacked up than it did to begin with; that's a separate issue. But mostly, I'm concerned because apparently it can destroy your ability to taste. If you find yourself frequently complaining that a sample is too small for you to taste anything, perhaps you should have thought twice about your latest rhinoplasty procedure before you permanently destroyed your olfactory senses.


Somewhat related to the Wine Fest, pictures of Connecticut wineries (as you can see, far more peaceful than the Wine Fest):

Get that Cheddar

When I heard we were making cheddar in my final weeks on the farm, I think I squealed with delight like I did the first time I ate a bowl of Fruity Pebbles cereal. Cheddar: the cheese I doused on top of everything when I was a kid, and the cheese that likely started my obsession. It's one of the world's most popular cheeses and the only universally liked cheeses by people who claim to "not like cheese that much."  Cheddar is a people-pleaser and a comfort food. The creamy orange glow of grocery store cheddars conjure familiar memories in most people's taste buds of milky, salty delights like cheeseburgers. Cheddar is usually your first cheese and cracker experience.

It's the goodwill ambassador of cheeses.

The most exciting thing about it for me was learning a completely new process. Cheddar, or at least famously good cheddar, is generally the province of a select few experts cheesemakers who focus exclusively on on just that cheese because it is a very intricate process requiring a substantial devotion of time and skill. The basic steps of culturing, renetting, heating, stirring, pressing still occur. But extra effort is needed in cheddaring and milling the curd.

Cheddar is a longer make process, so we didn't finish and clean up for the day until close to 7pm. Because it's a pain to make, and because almost everyone else had made it before, I was alone in my unparalleled excitement. Or at least alone enough that I was the only person in the days leading up to Cheddar day who would fill moments of silence by fist pumping the air and exclaiming "Cheddar on Wednesday." It was like I had come down with cheesy Turrets.

I thoroughly enjoyed the extra steps that were responsible for a more drawn-out cheesemaking day; it was painstaking but also new and exciting to me. First, after the curd had cooked and we drained the vat, we created a layer of curd mat at the bottom of the vat (similar to what we do for blue cheese or the Gouda-style cheese). Then we cut the mat into blocks and started stacking the blocks. First in stacks of two, then three, then four. Modified Cheddar Jenga. (This is the cheddaring part). Then we took each slab of curd mat and started cutting them into cubes. (This is the milling). Many cheddar makers have automatic machines that slice up the slabs for them. But we did it the old fashioned way with a knife and cutting board. After, we had filled the vat with a bunch of cheddar curd cubes, we added salt and started mixing. Last, the cubes are filled into the same standard large metal molds and pressed. We press the hell out of cheddar. Whereas most cheeses we make simply get pressed for 15 to 30 minutes per side, the Cheddar is pressed for a full 24 hours.

For the glowy orange look, some cheesemakers add annatto to color the cheese. Some cheddars are dipped and sealed in wax, but ours is simply placed on the aging room shelves to mature with the rest of its' cheesy friends.

The best part of the day: the extra cubes of cheese curd that didn't fit in the molds were bagged up and divided amongst us. I snacked out of my sack o' cheese for days.

Meeting the Cheese Family Part 3: Making Goat Cheese at Beltane

Until now, my only experience making cheese has been at Cato Corner and a brief laboratory session at cheese school in Vermont (i.e., VIAC classes). I thought all cheesemaking was an intense, sweat-soaked battle with curd. I completely forgot that not all cheese comes in ten to thirty-pound wheels of bicep challenging fury. What revived my cheesy perspective? Making goat cheese at Beltane Farm for a day.

Paul at Beltane and Mark at Cato Corner are cheese buddies who make their respective cheeses ten minutes down the road from each other. They each have their niche and they each rock the cheesy rind off that niche. Mark is the master of raw cow's milk, whereas Paul makes awesome fresh chevre and bloomy rind, French-style soft-ripened goat cheese from pasteurized goats milk. Last week, Paul was gracious enough to let me see the farm and help them out for a day in the cheeseroom.

Paul had a very calm and patient approach that made working in his cheeseroom a pleasure. His staff was great to work with as well. The majority of the time we laughed and talked about cartoons and music, so I felt right at home.

I started out, as expected, with cleaning dishes. Cleaning is always a constant no matter what cheesemaker you're working with. Then, I took down the chevre that had been hang-drying in the cheese cloth hoops overnight. We mixed the thick glorious mounds of fresh goat cheese into a tray and added salt. I did the honors of tasting several spoonfuls to make sure the salt was spread evenly. I'm always a little hesitant to offer up sophisticated tasting observations because most of the time I'm so excited about food that all my brain tells me is "mmmm tasty, now eat more." But I surprised myself in being able to pick out when the salt was inconsistent.


Fresh chevre takes almost two days to make. First, it has to rennet overnight in order to retain more moisture with a slower coagulation. Then, it has to dry overnight in hanging cheese cloths. Yet, it is an instantly gratifying cheese to make, because after those two days, it's ready to be packaged and sold right away. No aging room, no maintenance, no drama.

After last night's chevre chilled for a while, it was thrown into a crazy cheese-sausage-making contraption that squeezed out symmetrical 4-inch rolls for packaging. Some were sprinkled with herbs.

Next, we worked on the curd that had renneted overnight in the vat to use for a couple different cheeses. We spooned some of it into small molds that looked like plastic Dixie cups. These molds would then be flipped, but not pressed, much like Cato Corner's softer cheeses. The spooned curd will ripen and become one of their soft bloomy rind cheeses. Then, we scooped the rest of the curd in a large pitcher and poured it into cheese cloths to hang overnight for tomorrow's chevre. No hot and sweaty stirring, no cutting with giant wire harp cutters, no draining, no pressing. There was a fine art, however, to pouring the curd, which was a very wet, jello-like amorphous mass, and carefully gripping the cloth around the heavy wet blob to tie it so that everything didn't go spilling out from an errant corner. Plus, if the cord isn't tied tight enough while it is hanging, the cloth could slip out and spill all its cheese entrails on the floor.

While all this was happening, the milk in the second small vat was pasteurizing for that day's cheese, which would be a Camembert-style ripened cheese. In order to make fresh cheeses like chevre that cannot be aged, the milk has to be pasteurized. By federal law, anything made with raw milk has to age at least 60 days. That just won't fly with soft un-aged cheeses, such as chevre, ricotta or even many Camembert or Brie-style cheeses, that is unless you want a plateful of funky rubber in two months. Therefore, in this country, young fresh and soft-ripened cheeses have to be made with pasteurized milk. To accommodate this step, cheesemakers like Paul use a cheese vat that doubles as a pasteurizer. Once the milk heats for long enough to meet pasteurization requirements and then cools to avoid killing the rennet and culture, then everything can remain in the same vat and be added directly to it.

There wasn't much milk. The pasteurization, cooling, acidification and coagulation process, all taking place in the same vat, didn't require much time. By late afternoon we were hooping. Everything at this stage involved the same familiar concepts of cutting the curd and scooping it up in molds, but with one-tenth of the milk, almost no heat, and different equipment. We cut the curd by cutting lines in the gel with a basic kitchen knife and stirred only long enough to catch the big pieces we missed. With such a small vat it only took fifteen minutes to empty out the curd during hooping. The molds were the same ones we use at Cato Corner for Hooligans. We flipped the cheeses in the molds, of which there were only a few dozen (versus over 120 Hooligans at a time). Both vats cleaned and all done...at 2:30!

Though the day ends early and I lose far less fluids making goat cheese, there was a careful dance to balance the various batches and additional work of pasteurizing the cheese. On top of that, they make cheese every day of the week -- all seven of them -- so there is no reprieve. I'm glad I got the opportunity to broaden my experience while catching a glimpse of the goat-world with such an awesome crew.

Be it from a goat or from a cow, I still love eating both by the fistful. And now, I love making both. I'll pick cow when I need more cardio and weight training though.

The aging room. Less space required.
What no giant wheels of cheese?

I love baby animals so much.