Finally, A Fabulous Cheese Book

I’m so impressed by The Master Cheesemakers of Wisconsin (University of Wisconsin Press, 2009), a new book by James Norton and Rebecca Dilley, I hardly know where to begin. First off, the pictures are exquisite, capturing the essence of small towns in rural Wisconsin and the dairy hives within them. What Robert Frank did in the 1950s, capturing stark images of post-war America, photographer Becca Dilley does for the cheese state, peeling back the shrink-wrap to give us glimpses of Amish milking barns and portraits of hair-netted men with muscled fingers stirring curds. She captures the zeitgeist of artisanal cheesemaking.

What Dilley does in her photographs, Norton does in his writing, creating intimate scenes rather than lists of facts. The reader follows Cedar Grove’s Robert Wills into his living wastewater treatment plant (it looks like a lily pond) and learns about his annual curd-fattened bluegill fishfry. Doug Peterson, of Mazomanie, talks about how he left a large dairy cooperative in order to develop a cheese for high-temperature pizza ovens. What this book does, unlike other primers and atlases I’ve picked up, is connect readers to the impassioned few who dream up cheeses like Faarko, maple leaf cheese, and cinnamon-rubbed butter jack.

Dilley and Norton, who are part of the Twin Cities food blog Heavy Table, embarked on this book project to explore the Master Cheesemaker Program run by Madison’s Center for Dairy Research, an organization that Norton describes as “a Jedi High Council of Dairy Knowledge.” The program takes between 13 and 15 years to complete and has certified 44 Master Cheesemakers in the state of Wisconsin, as of 2008. Dilley and Norton set out to meet each one in person.

The book is organized by region, with useful maps, tasting notes, and visitor information. It’s a pleasure to look at and worth keeping in the kitchen by the cheese board or on the coffee table during a tasting. But the thing I admire most about this project is the storytelling, done through both words and pictures. The Master Cheesemakers of Wisconsin does what more cheese books ought to do: it connects us to the hands behind the wheels.

Roaring Forties Blue

It’s been a very long time since I went to a spontaneous dinner party, but tonight was a full moon, and the time change made everything seem possible. So off I shambled, summoned to a last-minute harvest supper. It was a good thing I had a blue cheese to fit the mood. I threw it in a bag with half a bottle of sherry. Voila: dessert.

Here are 5 things that make a spontaneous dinner party delightful:

Random ingredients.

People sitting around on stools.

A chopped apple salsa w/ purple onion, ginger, cilantro, and lime juice.

Conversation-piece lighting.

Experiments in the oven, in this case: lavender-infused pork chops.

My friend Shanta put on an exquisite feast in her converted garage. The best part was watching everyone chop squash and fry bacon and sip wine around her great big counter. Some people just ate pumpkin seeds and read the Sunday New York Times, which felt truly decadent.

The Roaring Forties Blue fit right into the beautiful whirr of it all. I can think of no other blue that makes a more perfect dessert. Who doesn’t love a cheese that comes in sapphire wax (spectacular by candelight). And the texture, it’s like cheesecake – ultra-creamy, sweet-sharp, with a complex, grassy head and a burnt sugar finish.

Truth is, I’ve searched for Roaring Forties Blue since I read about it on Miss Cheesemonger. What a delight to come upon it this weekend, unexpectedly, in the cold case of a small Center City market, where a grab basket of wedges drew the cheese-curious. There it was, my Roarting Forties, a peacock in the mix.

Roaring Forties hails from King Island, a craggy blip off the Australian coast. The island has a strong dairy industry, and it’s thought that seed from shipwrecks during the 15^th and 16^th centuries washed ashore and created the lush grasses that make the milk so rich. King Island cows are renowned for their sweet milk. The name "Roaring Forties" is actually the name of a gale.

So, there you have it: shipwrecks spontaneously generating pastures, cheese shops mysteriously appearing with curious cheese, and harvest parties happening spur of the moment. Synchronous cheese+spontaneity. Could there be a more auspicious beginning to November?

Grayson

I know, I know, you’re wondering about the perfect Halloween cheese. Okay, that pushes us into orange territory…but I feel strongly that a Hallow’s Eve cheese should be stinky. I mean, if it doesn’t smell foul it won’t fit in with the bloody stump you’ve got sitting on the hay bale by your stoop. Who wants to linger in a witch costume eating something as mousy as a Colby?

I, for one, will be reaching in amid the dry ice for a wedge of Grayson, an oozy washed-rind cheese with a surface that is crossing-guard orange. This is a pungent, dearly gooey cheese that comes from Virgina (kind of a scary place). Think of an Italian Taleggio, then add a muscle shirt.

Grayson is produced by Meadow Creek Dairy, a family farm that practices seasonal grazing – the color of the cheese is actually from the high levels of bete ceratene in the milk. This year, Grayson won 2nd place for Washed Rinds in the American Cheese Society Awards. It has also garnered media kisses from Marty Stewart.

For stinky-cheese novices, here are some suggestions: serve this oozy wedge alongside honey and dried fruit, and know that once this cheese sits out a bit the dirty-sock odor will subside. The smell is most concentrated when you first unwrap it.

The folks at Meadow Creek recommend serving this raw milk cheese with a full-bodied white, a light red, or a dessert wine. Personally, I like the idea of a strapping Belgian ale -- something to match the complex beefiness -- and a dish of salted almonds.

I plan to serve it toasted, on baguette rounds, come Halloween. This year I might just serve all the little neighborhood ghouls a hot cheese appetizer instead of candy. Why the hell not?

Pennsylvania Noble

The moldy month of October has really opened my eyes to the pleasure of a good rind. I had a quick tutorial a few weeks back with Bloomin’ Idiot, a smoldering, moldering cheese from Wisconsin, and I’ve been hooked on spores ever since. Consider the note on the label of Pennsylvania Noble, a cheddar-style cheese with a hardy outer jacket: “Toasted rind side up is delicious!”

Hell, I couldn’t wait to fire up the toaster oven tonight when I got home from a rainy day at work. I took the crust, sliced it right onto a baguette round, and, oh, what a melty treat I had. Even the dog was licking her lips.

Truth be told: I took this cheese to a little soiree last night hosted by our very persnickety Euro cheese friend, The Blue Cheese Brit -- a regular character in these posts. Being British, the BCB likes to stick his rosy nose up at domestic cheddars. So, I was pretty excited to watch his reaction when I slid my wedge of PA Noble – made of organic, raw milk from grass-fed cows – onto his cutting board.

Would the Brit bite?

Well, guess who exclaimed as he cut into it, “Ohhh, God, look how she breaks!”

PA Noble comes out of Green Valley Dairy in Lancaster County, where it was developed by a pair of Amish brothers keen to switch from hormone-amped cows to pasture-raised heifers. Now their cave-aged cheddar-style Noble (as they market it) is a hot ticket item. It’s won several national and local awards, and you’ll find it at ritzy bistros, like Django. I heard about it at the Fair Food Farm Stand in Reading Terminal Market, my fave source for local cheese.

PA Noble is marvelously sharp. It has the tangy claws of a cheddar, but it’s earthier…pasturey. The mouthfeel is smooth, though Noble is crumbly, and the sharp tweak at the end actually leaves your tongue a bit numb.

The label (which pictures a goofy cow in an Amish hat) should be obeyed: toast those rinds. It makes for a crisp-gooey, grandfather-ish snack. And if you’re ever invited by a British snob to a cheddar smack-down, this is just the eyebrow-raiser you’ll want to slide out of your back pocket.

Bleu Mont Bandaged Cheddar

If there was a cheese-of-the-woods mushroom, this would be it. Bleu Mont Dairy’s Bandaged Cheddar Reserve tastes like walking through a damp forest in October. It’s gorgeous – a cheddar so woodsy you have to wear a wool sweater to eat it and, if possible, a cap with ear flaps.

Bleu Mont Dairy has an interesting story. I used to buy this cheese from Willi Lehner at the farmer’s market in Madison, Wisconsin, and I never knew his cheese-making operation was solar and wind-powered. Or that he had a straw-bale aging cave. Uhm, I want to live there. It sounds like one big Michael Pollan fantastique.

I took this cheese to a writers’ group last weekend, and my friend Ellie said, “Whoa, this is adult cheese. I don’t think I’ve eaten a cheese like this before.”

Bleu Mont’s Bandaged Cheddar is…how shall I put this...for mature audiences, much like Lars von Trier’s latest -- which is worth seeing if you like talking taxidermy. I do. If you want to host a cheese-cap after the movie, this would be an ideal centerpiece. I mean, it is bandaged.

Break out the hard cider – Strongbow pairs nicely – then put on some theremin records. This curiously gamey and strikingly elegant raw-milk cheese will have you dreaming of dark branches, wet wind, and talking foxes.

Friendly Farm Smoked Cheddar

I’ve been on a cheddar kick lately, which is why I did a little polka yesterday when I received a block of this pungent raw-milk cheese in my CSA box from Greensgrow Farm. Greensgrow, a mostly organic urban farm up here in Fishtown, is probably my favorite discovery since moving to Philadelphia. Located on the site of a former galvanized steel plant, this wee bit of acreage out here amid the asphalt jungle makes me feel like I’ve got one foot back in the Midwest. With a city block full of raised beds and a nursery that stocks heirloom plants, Greensgrow has become my personal and spiritual pantry. Now that I’ve joined their CSA – Community Supported Agriculture – it’s become the center of my universe. I stop by the farm every Saturday and pick up my weekly ration of local produce and dairy, then I kiss the ground.

I smooch the earth, I really do.

Are you scratching your head? Are you working the toothpick over your teeth and wondering what in heaven I’m talking about? I know, cheese dreamers, you never thought you’d see the words “urban” and “farm” linked together. But believe me, the people at Greensgrow have given me faith that good things can come from concrete. They are even teaching rowhouse-dwellers like me how to compost in Dixie Cups (well, not quite) and how to keep bees in the city. It won’t be long before I am making cheese from itty-bitty city goats on my rooftop.

Until then, I’ll just enjoy local cheeses that come to me through the refrigerator case at Greensgrow – there’s a whole cooler stocked with local meats and dairy treasure. This week’s Friendly Smoked Cheddar is just that: frrriendly. It tastes good with everything. On Saturday, I served it alongside beans on toast for a traditional (but vegetarian) British breakfast – it was a perfect substitute for sausage links.

I couldn't find out much about this smoked cheese, except that it's produced by a farm cooperative in Gap, Pa. It's available locally at Weaver's Way Co-op, Pumpkin Market, and Greensgrow Farm. If you stop by Greensgrow, be sure to raid the cooler for a few other worthwhile dairy specialties, including Pequea Valley Yogurt (vanilla is my favorite) and the goatmilk gelato made by Gelati di Capri (try the Mandarin Cremesicle).

Pssst...Greensgrow offers a winter CSA that's incredible -- the highlight of last winter, for me. There are a limited number of shares, and sign-up just started this week.

Bloomin' Idiot

I have always liked mold. Still, I was a little unprepared for the gray furze on the surface of Bloomin’ Idiot, a new cave-aged blue from Hook’s, a company that I think of as the Prada of Wisconsin blues. I unwrapped the package, then went online to the Hook’s web site to make sure I hadn’t let my little bitta luv sit in the crisper for too long. Nope. This cheese is supposed to look like the moon.

“Bloomy” cheeses are usually white, at least in my experience. Think brie. Think camembert. They look like leather purses. You can eat the rind (I usually do), but if you’re mold-averse, you can cut the crust and dig into the center. Bloomy cheeses ripen from the outside in – instead of injecting mold into the cheese itself, cheesemakers spray or rub mold spores onto the surface, then let the wheel age. The resulting cheese is strong around the edges and mellow within, kinda like a Philadelphian.

I’d never encountered a bloomy blue until last night, when I stared down Bloomin’ Idiot on my kitchen counter. I wanted to put on some boxing gloves. I mean, this wedge looked tough. I let it breathe, put on a little Billie Holiday (“Am I Blue” seemed appropriate), then read a blurb about Patti Smith in the New Yorker which mentioned both Prada and “punk chanteuse” in the same sentence -- delightful. I hoped my bloomy cheese would be a punk chanteuse.

Bloomin’ Idiot tastes barnyardy with a sharp blue kick at the end. It brought to mind tractor pulls, where there is often a lot of dust and pollen in the air, alongside the smell of hot rubber. The sharp taste at the end reminds me of that rubber smell, although that’s not a bad thing. The mouthfeel is creamy, and because there are small holes in this ivory dream, I thought of baby swiss. If I had been blindfolded, I couldn’t have told you this was a blue cheese. It’s definitely one of the more unusual blues I’ve tasted. The cantankerous purist in me was skeptical, but the punk chanteuse definitely dug it.

Last night, I also broke out a wedge of Dunbarton Blue, another new and unusual blue from Wisconsin, this one from Roelli Cheese Haus, in Shullsburg. This is a great pairing if you want to peruse the Roquefort periphery, because although these two cheeses sing bluesy notes, they definitely rock out with their own sweet solos. The Dunbarton is cheddary with a blue warble; it’s a firmer, more charismatic cheese than Bloomin’ Idiot. The longer I let Bloomin’ Idiot sit, though, the sweeter and softer it became. Mmm...smarvelous.

Full Disclosure: Both of these cheeses were mailed to me as samples from the Wisconsin Milk Marketing Board.