Cheesemonger to the Stars

I'm not one to floss about grand achievements, but from here on out, I'm no ordinary cheesemonger. I'm cheesemonger to the stars.

There was this one time Spike Lee...was outside of the store filming a carpenter's protest. Or at least it looked like him from our side of the window. Ummm...okay, okay, so there was this one time one of the crazy clients from Millionaire Matchmaker came in... and loudly discussed the calorie content of our tomato soup and left after eating some samples...and, umm, yeah I guess reality tv does not a star make. Okay okay, I have a real one! This other time Jon Benjamin (who has some show on Comedy Central but is only relevant to me for lending his voice on Archer and various Adult Swim cartoons) hung out in the store...eating sandwiches. Right, so.... Oh, I have it! Once, Jimmy Fallon came into the store...and I mostly avoided eye contact because real celebrities make me nervous, and all he did was buy a bunch of frozen mac & cheese.

Alright so I haven't actually mongered to any stars. And truth be told, the greater the celebrity, the more I wouldn't know what to do with myself and just act a fool. But all these celebrity pseudo-encounters in New York, as well as the generally demanding nature of customer encounters in this city's service industry, got me thinking. Someday, if I own a business, whether it be in an important city or small town, my mission statement will be "to provide a service or product that is so innately awesome that I don't have to kiss a bunch of ass to get people to like me."

Both law and cheesemongering are service professions. Both industries have taught me that I would sooner re-live that day I had kidney stones than spend my life kissing everyone's ass and ingratiating myself in a gratuitously saccharine display of self-prostitution. Right, so that sounds a little harsh.

Okay let's put it this way: The stores and business in which I feel most comfortable are those that employ a normal amount of courtesy to the average customer, are totally free to bust your balls if you're truly being a rude cretin, joke with you when you do something silly, and treat everyone like a normal human being. Whether you're kind of a big deal celebrity or just an average joe, each customer is deserving of the same respect when it is returned in kind. If a store/business serves me up something phenomenal, delicious, comforting, or unique, then I don't care if I'm greeted with feigned friendliness, high-pitched queries, and painted smiles. I'd actually prefer not to be. Just imagine the customer is a friend you've known for years. At least that's what I do when I try to help people pick out cheeses from the case. I smile because that's what you do when you're having a good time with friends.

It's pretty easy to tell when a corporate customer service model has jammed a friendliness micro-chip into its employees' brains. And there's nothing more distasteful. If people like your stuff and feel at ease doing business with you because you're innately a nice person, then they will buy your product whether you're having an incredibly smiley day or not. That's what friends do. They welcome your varying and normal levels of joy because the most important thing they get from the relationship is you.  So obviously, I just need to approach the next celebrity that comes in and ask to be their friend. Yes, by god, that's the trick! I'll let you know how that goes.

One Ticket on the Wabash Cannonball

In a word, today was lame. It was the first day I've wanted to cry at work since my days at the law firm. I held it in until the subway station, when I could easily pretend as if I had gotten trash debris in my eye.

So what did I do to make myself feel better? I tried to re-kindle some cheese fun. I made a few pit stops on the way home and sat down in front of a feast of: doughnuts, summer ale, and cheese. It's what I like to call the Homer Simpson cheese plate. And let me tell you, I'm sitting fat and happy at my computer right now. 

The Homer Simpson cheese plate.
Complete with robot beer cup. Because
cartoons make me happy.
Wait a minute. Who put that
doughnut in my hand and forced
me to start eating it before I got home...

It was an accumulation of confounding frustrations building throughout the week. Big things, little things, and expected things. Box after box of shipments arriving with glass bottles packed in freaking styrofoam peanuts (why do we still manufacture these things?! why can't I get them off me?!). Little things. A few days of negative energy and smattering of passive aggression (maybe it's the low pressure system). Big things. The stress of learning how to navigate new responsibilities. Expected things. 

I began to miss the simpler days of farmers markets, when rude customers didn't phase me; when everyone was happy to be outside in the fresh air; when all I had to worry about was what vegetables to barter my cheese for. It had me sitting at my lunch break, angrily shoving a panini in my mouth and reading the latest issue of Culture cheese magazine. I flipped through page after page of grinning cheesemongers posing next to elaborate displays of fromage-tastic mountains of cheese wheels. "What's that moron so damn happy about," I would grumble to myself. 

What. Is. That. 

Therapy would be appearing on my horizon. I went home with a piece of cheese I newly discovered a couple months ago. When it arrived in the store, I was ready to send it back to the distributor, unsure how we could sell such a god awful monstrosity. Those who knew better assured me that it was in its proper state and did in fact taste wonderful. Today I say, Wabash Cannonball, you my only friend. 

In all honesty the piece I ate was, in fact, a bit on the ugly side and too old to sell, but I'm not too good for old cheese. Instead of going into the trash at work, it might as well go into my belly. I sat down with this little monster, which I now find unquestionably beautiful, listened to the Townes Van Zandt rendition of "Wabash Cannonball" (I'm all about themes), and ate away my sorrows.  The Cannonball is a small goat's milk ball from my hood, the Midwest...though I hate to claim Indiana. On its journey from Capriole Farms, it looks like it's lived a hard life. Wrinkled from the work of the mold forming the rind and aging the cheese from the outside in, and covered in a layer of ash, at first it reminded me a little of what an old wad of gum would look like under various public handrails. But this thing tastes amazing!

It's a little chalky on the inside, but buttery and oozy on the outside where the mold is doing its work. The ash, which helps the mold do its thing and peaks out from the white fuzzies might look a little scary, but it all works together in a wonderful lactose synergy. The flavors are lemony and dense at its youngest and oozy with a bit of tongue tickling pungency as it gets along in age. I love this cheese all the time, any time. 

Wabash fit the mood for what I needed in a cheese pick me up. It reminded me that even ugly things can surprise you with some nugget of awesome. Be it a delicious food or a lesson learned -- the hope is that even the tough days have a reason for being. 

Cash Rules Everything Around Me

Cheese is a business. So just like in any business, you'll find your everyday moron. Even in the cheese world -- a world I've described as home to some of the warmest people I've ever met -- there is a smattering of undesirable personalities.

Once I found myself trapped in a conversation with an otherwise well-intentioned cheese guy/business guy who was suffering from a severe affliction of self-involved verbal diarrhea and smarminess. Not only was he unable to stop talking about how awesome he was --the words "I'm a hustler" actually came out of his middle-aged suburban mouth--, but he also thought so highly of his sense of judgment that he took it upon himself to psychoanalyze me on our first meeting. To him, the cheese counter was a stage, and he proceeded to question whether I really had the stage presence for "cheese theater" if I were to open a potential store of my own.

It was completely idiotic. I felt dumber for having participated in the conversation. Cheese store guests should feel like a cheesemonger is their friend and cohort in an adventurous hunt for a delicious food experience. Customers shouldn't be treated like a detached audience while their cheesemonger makes a fool of himself by over-dramatizing the relationship. And while some people (me) can't get enough of cheese or may joke about running a black market raw milk cheese trade, I sure as all get-out don't want my cheesemonger to hustle the stuff on me like a dime-bag of dairy goodness. Having now spent many successful weeks behind the cheese counter, I see how full of crap that guy was.

Pretty much everything that came out of his mouth exuded the two character traits that have cast the artisanal cheese industry (foreign and domestic) in a pretentious and elitist light:  narcissism and vanity. When people vomit that kind of nonsense, it makes customers think the reason they're paying $30/lb for cheese is because someone with a big vocabulary and fancy attitude wants to make a buck on spoiled milk. They don't see the hard work the farmers and cheesemakers put in to develop the recipes, care for the animals and make the product, or the effort the cheesemongers should be making to help them discover something new and delicious. They just see a buffoon, a court jester, a dairy thug, trying to sleaze their way to some dollar-dollar bills.

On both sides of the counter -- among cheesemongers and customers alike, people who think they're members of some cool kids club because they know a thing or two about cheese make it really difficult for the other person to enjoy the experience and the exploration.

There are self-involved, sleazy types everywhere. Having seen plenty of that in the corporate world, a fear of turning into a cheese counter cretin has hindered my own self-promotion in the cheese world. Many dear friends and supporters have encouraged me to do more to "brand" myself, if you will. Post more on the blog, review products, teach classes, link to my posts on Facebook, give Cheesy Street information out to strangers and new contacts, advertise. Instead, I have yet to burn through a 100-count deck of business cards I printed for myself, and a lot of acquaintances and old friends still have no idea what I'm doing with my life. Telling new people what I do usually begins with a hesitant stutter that I use to fill the space I anticipate from the awkward silence that will ensue.

Let's be blunt, though, every business needs a palatable amount of hustle to keep enough green paper flowing through its veins to stay alive. I realize that talking about what I do with people is essential to long-term survival, and, really, not so terrible. I handed out a very rough first draft of my business card to former classmates at my 10-year high-school reunion -- the epitome of awkward situations. I even unloaded a card to a stranger on the Subway a few weeks ago -- a native Brooklynite who spent some time in Wichita and struck up a conversation with me about my Kansas t-shirt. His wife loves cheese, I'm told. I'll probably never see or hear from that guy or his wife, but at least my card and web address are floating out there somewhere.

Talking about my cheese life has gotten much easier, and led to some really great conversations. Even strangers can sense your character pretty easily when you start talking about yourself. I've learned that as long as you are genuine and enthusiastic, people are really interested in hearing about your craft - be it accounting, lawyering, painting, cheesemongering, what-have-you. Everyone wants to talk to real people, not hustlers, clowns, or showmen. As long as you keep the smarm out of it, business-talk ain't so bad.

This is also a long way of self-promoting two things: 1) So you might have picked up that I have a first draft on a business card. It's really DIY and needs a lot of changes, upgrades and updates. But it looks like:

Biz cards with pictures from the blog and info on the back.

I look forward to dropping it in fish bowls for drawings at various restaurants and hotels.

2) Cheesy Street is blowin up homies!! Soon....well as soon as I figure out how the hell to design a web page...it'll be moving to its very own Dot Com! Without the hyphen! The Cheesy Street url was something I tried to reserve over a year ago when Tad and I came up with the name. Unfortunately I wasn't aware of Internet trolls who poach urls and purchase them shortly after someone runs a search for the name on services like GoDaddy, with the hope of selling or auctioning the domain at a higher price to those who really want it. The day after I searched for cheesystreet.com and was ready to to buy it, I realized some fool in Utah had bought it from under me hours earlier. Eventually he realized there was no burning demand for cheesystreet.com and transferred it to my friend Chris who will be helping me figure out how to design the page...which will happen ...someday...in the future...Okay so I have no idea when it will happen, but at least the option is there now and it WILL happen. 

An Ode to the Inanimate Object that Changed My Life

Say what you will about us folk who believe in signs, luck, omens, intuitions, various superstitions and the arguably delusional belief that everything happens for a reason. We might be a naive, gullible lot, hung-up on cliches and hell-bent on seeing what they want in all portents. Or we might just be on to something, suckas!

I'll be honest. Moving to New York alone to start working at a brand new cheese store scared the crap out of me. I'd mongered markets here, but the store would be a completely different beast. There would be managing duties, setting up for opening, dealing with daily crowds of customers, knowing about 100 cheeses versus 12, regulatory and operational protocol, handling customer complaints, inventory and ordering. The weeks leading up to my move were filled with a secret panic of whether I could hack it.

I thought, life sure would be easier if I just stayed in Del Rio, making cheese and pies at home. Instead, I tried to focus on how good it would feel to conquer the challenge. We all survive the complete helplessness and ignorance you have the first day of starting any new job. If I could do it in the most complicated of circumstances, I would be well-prepared if I ever opened my own business. Or, at least I'd feel pretty proud of myself for leaving pies and comfort behind to give it a try.

I've moved four times in the last year to pursue different cheesy adventures. Before each new beginning there were varying degrees of fear accompanying the uncertainty. Each time I reminded myself that everything happens for a reason and remembered the eerie sign I received just before I began a life of cheese last year.

During my last few weeks at the firm in 2010, I was paired up with a career counselor to help me figure out my next move. It wasn't unusual for confused, despondent lawyer types to receive similar counseling either through the good-will of their firm or through their own procurement. Times were lean for interesting, fulfilling legal jobs, so we needed all the help we could get in figuring out which waters to test. Despite the rampant cold-heartedness in BigLaw, at least everyone was unified in realizing that we all needed a hand in earning a living and paying off our massive student debt.

The counseling started with a thorough aptitude and personality test -- your standard Myers-Briggs style tests, but on crack. The results, which, in a nutshell, told me I had certain skill sets lawyers needed but would be a damn fool if I pursued lawyering as a vocation, steered the rest of the meetings with the counselor. We mulled over various careers that fit with my personality -- things that would keep me active and/or creative.

I had already started considering and researching cheese apprenticeships on my own, but was hesitant to bring it up with anyone for fear of being ridiculed. Eventually, I revealed my secret desire, shrouded as a tentative objective that I would consider alongside a back-up plan.

Soon it became obvious that coaching me for backup plan applications was a weak-willed way to deny what I really wanted for fear of presenting something unconventional to the world. So we switched to focusing on cheese, writing, and meeting people. At one of the last two sessions, my wonderfully positive and encouraging counselor opened up a book she recommended I read about a guy who travels around the country profiling people in various stages of figuring out what they want to do with their lives.

Inside the book, which she pulled from a colleague's office and thus would have no reason to know what was inside, there was a remarkable surprise: a copy of an old newspaper clipping about the growth of artisanal cheese in the United States and the joy of cheesemakers pursuing a life that suited them. It had no connection to any of the profiles or content in the book. And it freaked the hell out of us both.

It's as if this phantom book knew my dreams and was telling me to make the leap. Literally telling me. I've never to this day read a word of the book. I don't even remember what the title was. My only encounter with the book was that day, when I opened it to the middle, letting its anthropomorphic jaw gape wide enough to spit out that article at me.

That was the first moment I was certain. That was the point at which I stopped searching databases for other possible jobs.

Call it cliche or coincidence, but I always remember that peculiar moment when I'm feeling low. I'm positive it was some kind of sign. Hate on us sappy intuitive types all you want. We all have our tools to conquer negativity en route to a goal. We all have our ways to convince ourselves of a certain decision. Mine are just a bit spookier than most.

The Grand Opening Report

I know I've been a bit derelict in my posting duties. The weeks since store opening have been action-packed. But I'm going to try my best not to leave Cheesy Street to the wayside going forward.

BOOM, Food Safety Certified, Blouses!
Ok, so it's not a picture of the store.  But I had
to take a test to get this card! And for now,
 it's the best I can do on pictures. 

Three weeks in and being an official cheesemonger and manager-on-duty at a giant cheese store feels like second nature. That didn't take long. Beecher's is huge, and we do a lot. We have a cafe area, an evening lounge/restaurant area downstairs, a charcuterie case, a coffee bar, a cheesemaking facility...a petting zoo. It's a carnival of cheese and cheese-related fun.  Not only did I need to quickly learn the cheese case, but I also needed to know the ins and outs of the cafe area, the charcuterie case and meat slicer (love cured meat but I know nothing about it), the espresso machine (which freaked me out at first), and various miscellaneous tasks that arise like receiving orders, building sandwiches and cheese plates, and answering customer questions that baffle me.

The first day was a non-stop explosion of customers and curiosity. I ended up working an opening to closing shift. Fifteen hours, and a I loved every second. My feet, not so much. Since then, things have been a steady but sane flow of people.

I know names, locations and stories of domestic cheese and cheesemakers pretty well. Yet, I've never had the opportunity to try many cheeses. So describing the flavor of each cheese is a completely different matter. That included most of the cheese in our case when we first opened. I felt pretty confident about being able to direct people to the right cheese. But the first couple of days was a lot of looking at cheeses and guessing what they would taste like and hoping for the best.
"Do you have anything similar to a manchego?"
(To my self) "Gah, I have no idea."
Scanning labels frantically; finding one with a picture of a sheep.
(To myself) "Mmmeh, this one looks like a semi-firm sheep's milk cheese. I bet it'll work."
"Yes we do actually. Here try this one. I think it comes pretty close."
Nom, nom, nom.
"Man alive, this is delicious! I'll take a slice."

I would try the cheese with the customer or after they left and discovered that my guesses were usually pretty accurate. Not always, but surprisingly often. It worked well. I guess lawyering taught me a thing or two about making things up on the fly.

It only took a few days of tasting and exploring along with the customers before I learned 90% of the cheeses in our case and didn't have to rely as much on panicked assumptions. Now, I can look at a wheel of cheese and know which cheese it is without seeing the label.  Plus it didn't take long to know the cheeses that are crowd pleasers and the ones that aren't.

In a nutshell, I love my job. I love conversations with random excited customers and regulars. People in NYC love cheese. I knew that from my farmers market days. But now I can explore up to 100 different cheeses with them and figure out which is the perfect cheese for each person, and this may sound strange, but that is inexplicably fulfilling. And if my brain is ever fried from figuring out which cheese hits the mark for every single person, I can always escape to the solitary, focused zen world of the espresso machine or sandwich press. Waking up for an opening shift at 5:00am can be difficult, not to mention the alarming introduction to an early morning/late night cast of characters on the subway. Once I'm at work it flies by and I love being there.

One of the best aspects of the job is continually trying, discovering and re-discovering new cheeses I love ...or even ones that I don't love so much. As I keep going, I'll try to share as many as I can with you. Just because not all of you can come into the store and find out directly from our cheese counter, doesn't mean you should be sheltered from new and delicious cheese discoveries.

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.