The Perfect Storm Part Two: McCutcheon's Revenge

It was a day like any other – sunny in the morning with talk of a bumper end of season catch out at sea. But as the light faded and everyone started to think about heading indoors for the evening, an icy wind came through and the blackened clouds started to mass on the horizon.

Not even the knowing tap of old man McCutcheon’s finger against the glass of the barometer could ease the rising tensions of the townsfolk. Guarded whispers turned into anxious mutterings as the children were ushered in to tend the kippers for supper. Were the predictions correct? Could it finally be happening?

An anxious radio call through to the folks down at the docks went unanswered and, as the winds picked up, a few heavy drops of rain spat at the ground.

It was happening. The perfect storm.

"Ol' Man 'Cutcheon done got it right! Storm's a brewin'!"

At least, that’s how I think it happened. I’ve been forced to reconstruct this story from hearsay, conjecture and the decoding of the significant cheese wheel bruising that I found on my arms in the days following my ordeal.

Waking up on a barn floor surrounded by muscatels. Drawing the ire of a whole pen of enraged truffle pigs. It must have been one hell of a lactic acid trip.

The last thing I remember before blacking out was hearing that the final course of my dinner would be Truffled Old Telegraph Brie.

In the haze of seagulls, ocean spray and mayday calls made over the static (also known as the “no one will ever marry you” mayhem that occurs when I sit down to a table full of dairy products) I remember the most delicious truffle aroma, a powerful white mould cheese flavour and a centre so creamy that Davy Jones himself would have filled his locker with the stuff.

Some of the older fishermen still talk about that day. Old McCutcheon will tell anyone who asks that the needle on the barometer has shifted naught since that dark day in Saskapontackport history. The day when the nets snapped, the mainsails ripped in two and one unlucky boat (me) got tipped over by the giant wave (cheese) of a perfect storm.

Old Telegraph Brie with an inner layer of truffles. Yum!

The Perfect Storm: Part One

You know those times in life when the all the necessary elements come together to create an epic event of such grand proportions, even Mark Wahlberg is left flabbergasted? 

Yes. It’s the perfect storm.

Well, dear cheese lovers, I experienced that this weekend past when three of my favourite things came together in the one almighty cluster-bam of awesome.

Labradors.
Truffles.
Cheese.

All three?

Hells yes. Watch out. This is the perfect storm and it is going to blow…your…mind!

I know Clooney, I know.

I went truffling on the weekend, in a small country town known as Orange (about four hours west of Sydney). The day was to involve a walk around the orchards and vineyards of Borrodell winery for a stint of snuffle hunting (yeah, I just used that phrase), followed by a five (!) course meal involving truffles at every turn.

The truffles would be snuffled out by adorable dogs, the truffles would be dug up, and their flavours would be enjoyed in epic proportions. Yes dear reader, the humidity is rising, the barometer is getting low.

It's perfect storm.

We tramped around the vineyard in our blacktie outfits and gumboots and watched in awe as Zita the purebred Labrador snuffed out mud-treasures (yeah, I just used that phrase) and pawed the ground when she found them.

And oh my, did she find them (whilst also being obedient and delightful).

We were allowed to get down on all fours and sniff the earth where they were buried. You could see them peeping through the soil, and the aroma in the ground was, even then, simply breathtaking.

Most wonderful of all was the fact that each truffle had a different smell, with different fragrance notes becoming apparent at every turn. The first truffle we found was strongly reminiscent of red wine. We found truffles that smelt as though they were freshly dusted with chocolate and some even had undertones of blackberries and garlic. And everyone on our little walk had a different olfactory opinion.

Some people thought they smelt like plain dirt, and bless their cotton socks, we didn’t throw them out of the vineyard. (If it quacks like a duck, it’s probably dirt, right?)

By the end of the walk I was overstimulated and had to be gently cradled like a basket of so many truffles.

Oh wait.

I was the one cradling the truffles. And in the perfect storm of magnificence, we had only just crested the first wave. We were about to experience five courses of trufflemania, including (dear reader) the most freaking amazing marriage of truffles and cheese that I have ever experienced. A marriage that would put Barbra Streisand and James Brolin to shame.

What will happen next? Will Claire find the cheese of her dreams? Will she make it through all five courses in one piece? Will down-on-his-luck Captain Billy Tyne find a way to make it through the waves to bring his bountiful catch back to port?

Stay tuned for the Perfect Storm Part II – Beyond Truffledome.