Blue Cheese and Liberal-Thinking Hemp Farmers

First impressions are funny things. Whether it’s your thoughts on cheese (like an old boss refusing to eat anything but plastic cheese due to some vestigial decision made about dairy) or your thoughts on that hippie across the road, we all make snap judgements.

I was at the Blackwattle Deli in Sydney’s Fish Markets (have you been there? Wow! That place is the biz-nay) and I picked up a wedge of Byron Bay Blue made right here in Australia by the Bangalow Cheese Company. And as I made the purchase, I felt it – that old familiar feeling. It was Judgemental Claire, and she was coming back.

The cheese cabinet at Blackwattle Deli.

Was this cheese made by some sort of dreadlocked, tie-dyed drifter in a makeshift yurt on the outskirts of Nimbin? Would it taste anything like a proper blue? Do hippies even learn about colours in their backyard Steiner schooling system? Would it be…(gulp) pasteurised?

Hang the expense and stop being so judgey Claire. Let’s try it and see.

My first impression of this cheese is that it reminds me of Stilton, but that’s an unfair snap judgement to make too. It implies that any antipodean fare must be constantly compared to its more famous and more colonial forebears, and to do so denies the very Australianness of this cheese.

Yes, it has a complex flavour that is built-on-Stilton. Yes it is from a fairly young (comparatively) cheese producer and, yes, it will get better with age.

But you know what? Just like the stereotypical hemp farmer of Bangalow, it has a certain nutty charm. Like your average Bangalow hippie, its kind-of-gross external crust (formed after months spent in a dimly lit cupboard) is just another charm that makes you realise that this cheese has been places dude, and no amount of corporate pseudo-bourgeois city talk from the “Man” will ever change the fact that this cheese is inextricably linked to its rural-pinko-commie upbringing. Or something.

Plus, the more you hang around this cheese, the more you get the munchies.

Mum might not be impressed that you didn’t bring Stilton home for dinner, and that your current selection is a little less Oxford-punting-champion and a little more Appalachian-goat-wool-expert. While one of them was reading the Classics at Cambridge, the other was sitting in a cupboard, beginning to smell. While one was selected for the Henley Polo Tournament, the other was sitting in a cupboard…beginning to smell.

But you know what? We’re out of the cupboard now and we’re happy mum. And we’ve got the tofu co-op up north to prove it.

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!

Red: the colour of desire, Black: my life without this cheese

There comes a time in every blogger’s life when they are forced into this situation: apologising profusely for not being as prolific a writer as initially intended.

You, dear reader, are left waiting by the phone like so many jilted lovers, pining away the hours listening to Phil Collins mixtapes (you shouldn’t) and further wasting time by alphabetising the fridge (you really shouldn’t) and vacuuming the letter box (probably not a bad idea, the postman is judging you).

All the while, you wonder, will she ever get in touch? Will I be forced to create some sort of weird totem representative of my former affections and all the cheeses we once shared?

No.

And by way of explanation: Guess who has two thumbs and just got her wisdom teeth out? THIS GUY!

I hit the sofa, I tuned into The Beauty and the Beast (special edition DVD no less) and then watched the classic HBO series The Sopranos whilst getting a high intake of Vitamin Soup. And I made it through to the other side.

As a celebration of sorts, I went to SiJo’s to purchase a tooth safe cheese of the runny kind – Le Dauphin.

Le Dauphin is a double cream white mould cheese made in France from pasteurised cow’s milk.

Taken literally the name means dolphin, but Dauphin was also the name used to describe the heir apparent to the French throne while Louis after Louis kept popping his head under the crown.

For lovers of mild cheese that also packs a punch, this sexy little number is so easy on the tongue and one’s Francophile sensibilities. After all if it was good enough to be named after ol’ Lou, it’s good enough for me.

I can imagine all those Gallic regents quietly tucking into this cheese slathered (heck yeah, this cheese is verging on liquid at room temperature) over some fresh baguettes. It’s mild enough that the landed gentry will enjoy it, yet strong enough to get that uncomfortable taste of the serfs challenging the divine right of kings right out of your mouth. Because dammit, if you can’t enjoy your dynastic rights over a light snack, when can you?!

This cheese is also the perfect way to share some news with you. I will be heading to the city of lights – gay Paris – in just a few weeks time, and I plan on eating nothing but cheese and drinking nothing but wine.

If you have any suggestions on fromageries, charcuteries or general eateries that I must visit, please do let me know.

For now, let them eat cheese!

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.

Prince of Persian Fetta

Jar cheese.

A few years ago, I was introduced to Persian Fetta. Um, let me just say, I played Prince of Persia for years as a child. If they could have only told me about the fetta they were hiding there, I would have tried so hard not to fall on those spikes and make it to the end of the game (for what, I can only presume, would have been a room full of cheese).

Nothing says obscure cheese references like an 80s platform game on repeat...

In the world of stored cheeses, Persian Fetta falls into a casually-monikered genus that I refer to as “Jar Cheese” – a delicious dairy product that comes preserved in some form of delightful olive oil, forever stewing in its own glory.

A dear friend came over last week and gifted me with a jar of Meredith Dairy Goat Cheese with Extra Virgin Olive Oil, Fresh Herbs and Garlic.

She also gave me the gift of “this is the happiest day of my life”.

It is so deliciously soft. It is dripping in really tasty olive oil (which oozes out over the plate and your fingers as you eat it) and the flavours of the herbs and garlic have soaked down to the very centre of the cheese. I really don’t know what you couldn’t use this cheese for.

Seriously. It’s the kind of cheese that your partner will find you cradling in the bed in the middle of the night. And as you hold the jar and whisper sweet nothings into the glassy interior, cooing over the little cubes of joy in their suspended yumination, just remember to pay it forward.

Gift someone their very own jar cheese, and you will not be sorry.

And as a bonus, you can use the oil afterwards for cooking, drizzling over bread, or just plain drinking.

Cause there’s nothing classier than drinking a jar of cheese oil as you weep with joy.

An Appetite for Instruction: Cooking with Goat's Cheese

So cheese blogs aren’t just about eating cheese by itself on a plate. In your room. Under the covers. With the lights off. 

No, cheese blogs should be about the celebration of cheese in all its forms. This belief was heartily affirmed when I enjoyed a lovely lunch today with a blogging-and-cheese-loving friend of mine. I ordered some kind of pie, and accompanying it was a Greek salad with hearty chunks of fet(t)a. Each piece, my friends, was so chumpy you could carve it.

Anyhoo, this cheesexperience was so wonderful (“Cheese totally fits with every meal!” – “I know right?”) that I decided to share one of my favourite recipes with you peeps.

Introducing: 

Spaghetti Brocetta with So Much Goat's Cheese

- 400g Pancetta (cut to bacony thickness, either spicy or regular).

- 1 head of broccoli.

- At least, I’d say, 5 cloves of garlic.

- Some really good olive oil.

- 1 punnet of cherry tomatoes (250g ish).

- 1 packet of spaghetti.

- So much goat's cheese. So very much.


 1. Cut the pancetta into little squares (1-2cm in size) and fry them off on a medium heat in a large and deepish frypan. Enjoy aromas where appropriate.

2. Cut the broccoli into small florets and throw them in with the pancetta so they take on the flavour. Add some olive oil here if it starts to dry out (which it will). So…add the oil. Turn the heat down a bit.
3. Finely chop the garlic and add it to the pan (with a dash more olive oil).
4. Halve the cherry tomatoes (and try to avoid getting sprays of tomato innards in your eyes. Good luck). Add half of the quantity of cherry tomato halves to the pan, turn the heat down low and let it simmer away.

Did someone say "simmering"?

Oh wait. You should probably cook pasta while you’re doing this. Um…

5. Cook spaghetti. There are instructions on the packet. Follow them. They’ll know what to do.
6. When things are looking delicious and nicely incorporated in your frypan, add the remaining half of your cherry tomatoes. Then turn off the heat. The frypan will still have some residual heat to warm the tomatoes while you—
7. Drain your pasta and coat it in really nice olive oil (the kind you get for some crazy price per 300ml bottle at farmers’ markets in the country. Really farmer? Is it that good? Yes. Yes it is.)
8. Put your pasta in a bowl, add a couple spoonfuls of the sauce (which should be chunky and not too runny – like a good provincial Italian creation).

And now, most importantly…

9. Add SO MUCH GOAT'S CHEESE. Like, an uncomfortable amount. It’ll be awkward. Your partner will say, “Hey Claire, maybe you should take it easy on the chevre?” And you’ll say, “Cram it Mr. Boring!”

10. Enjoy your meal. It’s so freakin’ good.

So much!

Do Androids Dream of Eclectic Cheese?

In light of recent, shall we say, “disappointments” in the blue cheese arena*, I have hunted down a blue that I’m happy to say is multo-delish.

Yes, I’ve discovered the Simon Johnson store (with its gourmet cheese room) is a short walk from my work. Yes, I often leave work with the kind of hunger-crazies that cause me to make rash decisions. And yes, when I’m in a cheese room, I experience a kind of mild excitement-stroke that results in leaving with much cheese.

But that’s neither here nor there.

Just like on my previous trip to Si-Jo’s, I asked the lovely cheese attendant to offer advice on a blue, and she recommended the Bleu de Lacqueuille.

It’s delightful, it’s delicious, it’s de-lovely. And seriously, the makers must have had a field day buying vowels. 

Ms. Si-Jo (I know, I really should have made a note of her name) conceded the cheese was a little salty on the palate, but that it did not have the cloying aftertastes of many blues, thus making it perfect for pre-dinner nibbling.

Or pre-dinner “horfing down the gullet like a cheese-starved albatross” – as was the case with me. But don’t worry, I totes savoured it!

The thing I loved most about this cheese was the fact that it not only offered a complexity of flavour but also, within the actual slice taken from the wheel, there were different notes in different sections.

Creamy in parts, with sharp bites along the tantalising fault-lines of mould, this cheese reached its apogee along the crusty edges. It was as though I’d travelled forward in time, and the cheese had aged a few years into something one might find hidden in the darkened cloisters of a French monastery.

And so, in this delightful time-travelled induced coma of mine, I urge you try Bleu de Lacqueuille. From my nightmarishly dystopic vision of the future, I may even send someone back to tell you to try it, and you, like the John Connor that you are, will take heed lest you melt into a molten pool of cheese.

At least that’s what I think that movie was about. I don’t know – I’m too busy blissing out on Bleu.

---

* In the vein of the post-apocalyptic mood I seem to have conjured in my writing, I like to think that the Blue Cheese Arena is a cross between Rollerball, Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome, and Pride and Prejudice – where cheese lovers fight it out in a death cage to see who most recently acquired a wheel of delightful Stilton from Netherfield.