Ubriaco To Chase Away Doldrums

Now that the holiday parties are over and more sleet is in store, a person can easily turn gloomy. If you find yourself prone to despair, I suggest a nice wedge of Ubriaco as a cure-all.

Ubriaco, which means “drunken,” is a cheese that understands darkness. It spends months in a wine barrel before it comes to market. Originally, Italian cheesemakers hid wheels from tax collectors this way in order to avoid their fees. Eventually, these drunken cheeses became popular. Lucky for us!   To read on, please click here.

Full disclosure: I freelance for Di Bruno Bros. Twice a month, I pick a wedge of my dreams and develop a post for their blog. This is how I cover the cost of my dairy habit.

New Pairings for Parmigiano

My post for Di Bruno Bros. this week is all about pairing Parmigiano. Until I was introduced to the authentic stuff -- the kind with tiny crystals and a gargantuan flavor spectrum -- I never found Parm that interesting. Click over to the Di Bruno blog to check out the 12 Parm pairings I put together. You'll never think of Parm as a "grating cheese" once you try some of these. 

Also, if you're curious about what's happening in the world of raw-milk legislation, listen to the program that Peter Crimmins put together for NewsWorks on WHYY in Philadelphia. Peter interviewed Al Renzi of Yellow Springs Farm, Emilio Mignucci of Di Bruno Bros., and yours truly. 

For the story, Peter actually came over to my house to sample two kinds of cheddar with me -- one pasteurized, the other unpasteurized. I chose two local cheddars (PA Noble and LeRaysville XXXX Sharp) that were aged approximately the same amount of time. Fascinating. You can hear his response here.

    

From Lombardy with Love

My friend Stephanie Patrizio quit her job to spend the summer in Florence, learning Italian. When she told me of her plans, I cheered her on and asked her to send me periodic cheese reports. Below is Stephanie’s latest cheese adventure. Oh, how I love having a foreign correspondent.

Living in the beautiful city of Florence, one is exposed to some of the most beautiful art and sculpture in the world. The Duomo, the David or the Arno at sunset would take anyone’s breath away. But for me, the most exhilarating moment was when I walked into a 500-year-old cellar filled with beautiful homemade Italian cheeses, just outside of Bergamo.

My friend, Julia, has been living in the charming town of Villa d’Ogna for about 2 years, although her family has lived there for generations. To get away from the busy streets of Florence, I traveled to Lombardy to visit her.

Julia and I bonded years ago with our love for our Italian heritage and, of course, cheese. So when she told me that she was bringing me to a place she called ‘the cheese vault,’ I was more than a little excited.

The moment I stepped in front of Franco’s house, I knew this was going to be a unique experience.

The cows were relaxing in the shade, the fresh grasses they ate were piled on the doorstep, and when I asked Julia, ‘What do we do now?’ she simply said, ‘We ring the doorbell!’ Her boyfriend, Marco, a man who is the true definition of Bergamasco, came as our translator since Franco’s dialect is so thick. Months of Italian courses couldn’t help us now.

Franco appeared in a window, fresh out of the shower. I expected him to send us away, but this was apparently part of his daily life. He came downstairs and led us to a small wooden door next to the cows.

This is when I really started to get butterflies.

When he opened the door and led us inside, my mouth dropped. A cold breeze hit my face as I stepped into the dark cellar exposing hundreds of wheels of cheese lining the walls. Young cheeses, old cheeses, cheeses made from sheep, cow and goat. Being only a cheese lover rather than a true enthusiast, I suddenly wished I had enough knowledge to know exactly what was in that cellar. There was an enormous scale in the corner, a small working desk surrounded by shelves of cheese (where can I get one of those, West Elm?), and an old gorgeous slicer.

There was too much to look at, and I could tell there was never going to be enough time. This was Franco’s job, not a tourist attraction, so I smiled and hoped the excitement in my eyes would help all the sneaky picture taking.

He cut a fresh wheel and asked me to try a cheese called ‘Formaggio di Monte’ (cheese of the mountain), made by Franco himself only 4 months earlier from the cows who were right outside the door. He sliced a piece the way any proper Italian man slices anything, using the knife to meet his thumb. Its perfectly salty fresh goodness melted in my mouth. All I could get out was a nod. I bought almost a quarter wheel for 5 euro, knowing anywhere else in the world it would be more than double the price. 


Franco became a movie star to me and I became a blubbering idiot in the face of stardom. I’ve known how to say ‘what is your name?’ for years but all I could get out was ‘tu…. chiama….’ I said grazie what felt like 50 times and went back out into the daylight.

It was afterwards, after a feeling of having 4 espresso, I asked Marco for the details.

If this is the cheese vault, then Franco is the cheese keeper. He cares for the cheese for all the makers of the nearby mountains. He cares for them, wipes the mold from them daily, keeps them in the right temperature, and makes and sells his own on the side. He is an old man, with no heirs, so one day when he dies, the cheese vault will die too. Knowing this made my experience even more special, hoping that trades like this will never disappear.

I carried the cheese in my purse all the way back to Florence and placed it in the fridge. The next day I broke off a chunk for my local cheesemonger (any respectful Italian woman has one of those) and asked for advice on pairings. Upon instruction, I let the cheese sit for 2 hours, bought some fresh bread and prosciutto from the market, and waited anxiously.

I always enjoy trying cheese first by itself, to capture each moment of flavor. I suppose the phrase ‘the cheese stands alone’ has a different meaning with a more refined palette. When the cheese was ready, I made a simple plate. It was just as delicious as the moment I tasted it in the vault. It was soft, mild, and milky, and then it kicked you in the tongue at the end. The salty ham for a chaser was more than perfect.

As I enjoyed the rest of my meal, all I could think was, ‘The David ain’t got nothin’ on Formaggio di Monte.’

Check out Stephanie Patrizio's daily photo blog, Sono Stefania.

Piave: The Summer Snacker

Until I really got into cheese a few years ago, I never considered eating a hunk of the hard stuff, like Parm or Pecorino, unless it was grated. Now I know better. Some of the tastiest cheeses are relegated to “accents” in part because they have so much flavor. Eat them just as they are, without starches or sauces, and you’ll be surprised how delicious they are.

Take Piave, a veritable Mars Bar of a cheese. It smells like almonds and tastes like butterscotch nougat. To continue reading, please visit the Di Bruno Blog.


Full disclosure: I freelance for Di Bruno Bros. twice a month. They pay me to write about any cheese I like, and I run a hunk of the post here.

Lemony, Lovely Pantaleo

Back in April, a friend gave me a bag of lemons from her family tree in Florida, and their bright floral bite sent me on a citrus binge. That’s how I came to Pantaleo, a firm Sardinian goat cheese that smells like lemon yogurt and tastes – in its youth – as delicate as the Madaleines that sent Proust into literary reverie. Pantaleo even dissolves into crumbly bits on the tongue, like a cookie.

Italian cheeses, I have learned, are transformative. To keep reading, please click here to jump to the Di Bruno Bros. blog.

Full disclosure: I freelance for Di Bruno Bros. twice a month. They pay me to write about any cheese I like, and I run a nugget of the post here.

Cremifacto Verde di Capra

I know a man who buys two blue cheeses a week and eats them for dinner. No, he's not my boyfriend -- he's my muse. When I have a humdrum day, I often think of the cheese boards I have eaten at his house, and then I perk up like daisy.

Two summers ago, the Muse introduced me to Cremifacto Verdi di Capra, a goat cheese from Lombardy that had become his infatuation. "This blue will haunt you in the dark," he told me, "It's so mild and creamy." To continue reading, please visit the Di Bruno Blog.

Full disclosure: I freelance for Di Bruno Bros. twice a month. They pay me handsomely to write about cheese for their blog, and I run a nugget of the post here.

Cheese for a Snow Day

Out here in the East, the world is blizzard bright. Our street looks a little bit like Nuvola di Pecora, a bloomy sheep cheese with a mattress cover of snowy rind. It is pudding glorious and perfect for fattening up your snow-bound kin, which is exactly what I am doing.

My father is in town from the Great Plains, and we are enjoying moments of intrepidness, girding ourselves with fur. This afternoon we braved the wilds, hoping to make it down to the cheese counter, but we only made it as far as the liquor store before the wind blew us back home.

Padre Fromage

If only we had some Nuvola di Pecora in the fridge. If you like sheep’s milk cheese, this is a must-find delicacy. It tastes like sheep’s milk custard -- sweet and vegetal with a hint of steamed cauliflower and a clean, milky finish. It’s not muttony the way some sheep’s milk cheeses are, like the dense and delicious Shepherd’s Basket I tried several weeks ago.

Nuvola di Pecora means “sheep clouds.” Easy to remember. This is a cheese I will dream about – and visualize during sleepless nights, counting ONE Nuvola di Pecora, TWO…. If you can't find it at the cheese counter (it's a new release), beg your cheesemonger to seek this out.

Serve it with blackberry jam, preferably during a snow storm.

Nuvola di Pecora, Tait Farm Blackberry Jam

Trugole

On Friday, I made a great discovery: there’s a cheese importer in my neighborhood. Tucked amid the row houses, two unmarked garages function as a wholesale warehouse for International Food Distributors Inc., a company that’s been in business since 1939. I can’t believe I’ve been walking my dog down this block, past coolers full of triple-creams, shelves of stilton and manchego. Somehow I have to believe that this is not just a coincidence, that it’s destiny.

Trugole, a beautiful cow’s milk cheese from the Piedmont region of Italy, was one of the cheeses I tasted on Friday, when I toured International Food Distributors in preparation for next weekend’s tasting. Nicole Marcote, of my local cheese shop, Quince, was kind enough to make the introduction.

I spent an hour in the cooler with a broad-shouldered she-Viking named Jayne, who was kind enough to school me on some of her favorite cheeses, including this one, a staff-favorite at International Food Distributors. In fact, when Jayne took the wheel into the cutting room, about five people appeared, noses in the air, sniffing. “Is that Trugole?” each one asked.

Trugole is a sharp, sweet cheese with a lingering taste of caramelized onions. The texture reminds me of an aged Provolone, but the taste is more characteristic of a Parm or an Asiago. When I served it tonight, alongside lagers and pickles, Monsieur Camembert exclaimed, “This would be good in a plowman’s lunch.”

There is something infinitely snack-worthy about Trugole. It’s full-flavored and fruity, and it pairs well with just about anything – fruits, nuts, olives, cured meats. It was especially good on a sesame-crusted baguette.

Trugole (pronounced True-goh-lay) comes from the foothills of the Alps, where the mountain grasses and foliage must be heavenly, because the sweet notes in this cheese are out of this world. This is a washed-rind cheese, and for every day of Trugole’s 60-day aging process, the wheels are turned and sprayed with water and salt.

The result is a pleasantly sharp semi-soft cheese that I think would fit nicely on the Thanksgiving table, especially if you have risk-averse friends who might shy away from stinkier business. Trugole would be a great mediator – a cheese to impress the foodies and the non-foodies. And it melts well, which means it would be great at midnight when you are contemplating a grilled turkey sandwich and scrabbling about the crisper for a cheese that can hold its own against layers of cranberry sauce and gravy.

Mmm…I’m already dreaming about leftovers. Dangerous.