The moment has come. And I couldn’t be more excited. It’s something I’ve dreamed of doing for a while.
It’s 10 a.m. on a Saturday morning at the Goshen Farmers’ Market and I’m getting ready to crack open a 80 pound wheel of Italian Parmesan cheese, otherwise known as Parmigiano Reggiano. The wheel arrived a few days earlier in a plain cardboard box. No fancy wrappings, no how to cut instructions. But its heft speaks for itself. Massive amounts of milk shrunk down to 80 pounds of pure gold.
My cheese story starts in Belgium. As a young girl, I loved walking down my street in Genval to the little "épicerie" where we could buy almost any food item we needed. Jeanne and Jules ran it. Jules was a short man with an elongated face, teeth that reminded me of a mouse, and watery blue eyes. He often had a kerchief wrapped around his neck and a beret on his head along with the gray apron that meant he was at work. Jeanne was more rounded with glasses and a mole on the chin. They worked side by side, using grabbers to reach the highest cans on the shelves, or a step stool as needed.
Along with the dry goods, they had a large refrigerated case which also served as their counter. That's where the cheeses were kept. Emmental, Parmesan and Edam sat in blocks and wedges alongside creamy Brie and Fromage Blanc. My favorite was and still is Gruyère. My mother would often send me to get some if she was making a white sauce for macaronis or glorified cauliflower. I would walk home with it, hoping that I would be able to sneak a little piece when it got grated.
The cheese story continues over the years. My cheese tastes broadened as I traveled to other countries and sampled new flavors and textures. And then there was the time in Barcelona, Spain, when I was walking through a neighborhood and noticed a horse-pulled wooden cart piled high with wheels of cheese. It looked like it had just come down the mountain. I stopped in awe. What a dream! Then, my eyes focused on the driver. Looking exactly the part, his brown black straight hair hung haphazardly around an oval sun kissed face. A wide brimmed straw hat sat on his head and a gold earring in his ear glittered in the morning sun. A red bandanna tied around his neck only emphasized his dark brown eyes and warm complexion. Dressed in black pants and a black tank top, he sat there casually, calloused hands resting on the reins, waiting. I took one look and then another and thought to myself, “If he gets down from his cart and asks me to come with him back to his village, I will follow!” Who wouldn’t want to live in the mountains of Spain with sheep and make cheese?
Then there was the bakery where, over the years, I made countless loaves of bread. We started selling sandwiches and some cheese. I always said that I only started making bread so I would have something to put my cheese on. So when I retired from the bakery, it only made sense to start a cheese shop.
Over the years, I’ve kept dreaming. I bought large wheels of Gruyère and smaller wheels when we hosted our Christmas feasts. But my dream for the large wheel of Parmesan still hadn’t happened. Until yesterday. There’s nothing like breaking into a new wheel of cheese. It’s always new. It’s always historic. No one else will ever open this wheel again. And, along with the thrill, it’s a gift to the senses. The smell, the taste, the feel, the sound, the sight. Yes, all part of my continuing love affair with and dreams about cheese.
Yes! I need a little bit of cheese every day.
ah! you're a cheesemonger too!
very fun story. cheese is wonderful. (and keeps me from being vegan.)