Down in the Cheese District, on Third

I was at the Good Food & Wine show this morning. While I didn’t get to try any food (alas there for work reasons), I did stumble upon this delightful signage.

I want to go to there...

You can't spell “fun” without a little ewe

There are some things that just shouldn’t be: 6am yogilates classes, bacon-flavoured ice cream, and double denim (or as I call it, the Canadian tuxedo).

Burtnee and Jaytee in their special outdoors clothin'.

Until today, there was another item on this list – sheep’s milk cheese.

Now I’m not claiming to be some kind of expert (of course I am! This blog is nothing BUT unfounded assertions of fromage knowlage), but I’m pretty sure cheese is made from cow’s milk, right? That’s if it doesn’t come out of an aerosol can, partially hydrogenated and mixed with the delightfully acrid stench of fake ham flavouring.

Ha! Just kidding.

But sheep’s milk cheese? How does one even milk a sheep? I imagine it’s like visiting the Big Merino in Goulburn – at the end of the day you end up feeling tired, ashamed and covered in lanolin.

Following the announcement a few weeks ago that I had to cut down all cheese except sheep’s milk cheese and ricotta (seriously?), I figured I should try it out. Sure, the last time I went to the Big Merino I ended up getting lost inside before emerging dehydrated and covered in fibreglass splinters, but really, that’s pretty much what happens any time I visit an exciting tourist attraction (cf. Space Mountain, 1996).

So I bought myself a piece of D’Affinois Ewe’s Milk Cheese. ($149 per kilo? Who am I, Gloria Vanderbilt?)

And the flavour...

Colour me pleasantly surprised!

It’s a little more sour-salty than goat’s cheese, but it has a milder taste – one that I sense would be more accessible for newcomers than goat’s cheese. For many, goat’s cheese assaults the palate with a flavour that says, “We raised this kid on nought but whiskey and tales of Scottish independence, and now she bears a cheese as strong as William Wallace…and twice as peaty!”

The best thing about this cheese is that its flavours are complemented and enhanced by a glass of wine. For this evening, I have chosen a fine February vintage and it works marvellously with my D’Affinois.

You know what? This cheese may be strange but, just like the Big Merino, it has a place in the great scheme of things.

Just like that old Goulburn landmark, it’s full of surprises. It reminds us of the importance of the humble sheep in our great agriculinary heritage, and it smells just a little bit like a disused shearing shed full of Scottish secessionists.

Fun fact: The Big Merino is affectionately known as Rambo.

Tastes like... tenuous links

On Sunday I had the pleasure of attending a casual meet up with a group of Sydney-based food bloggers for burgers, story-telling and the kind of quiet eyeing up that people do in new situations where they don’t know anyone. (Oooh, I like her camera/nail polish/dress/food blog/life philosophy etc).

We went to Moo Gourmet Burgers in Newtown where we were shown a simply marvellous time. Seriously, props to the team at Moo – not only did they treat us well (champagne on arrival anyone?) and give us name tags, goodie bags and a courtyard to ourselves, but their burgers were seriously sensational.

After much deliberation, I opted for a cheeseburger. Because I write a cheese blog. Get it? Honestly, keep up guys.

I also opted for additional jalapenos on the burger which was possible the BEST DECISION OF THE DAY. Not only did it taste awesome, but it reminded me that while writing about a cheeseburger on a cheese blog is tenuous, it’s nowhere near as dicey as being reminded that you should really share your recipe for jalapeno poppers. 

Don’t know what they are? Well, stay tuned for the next blog post my pretties. All will become clear.

In the meantime, take a look at the following blogs if you’ve got a spare moment – all painstakingly managed by the lovely people I met on Sunday.

Blog name	Blog URL
The Adventures of Miss Piggy	http://theadventuresofmisspiggy.blogspot.com.au
vegeTARAian	http://vegetaraian.net/
Food Scene Investigation: Sydney	http://foodscenesydney.blogspot.com
Sydney: Feed Me	http://sydneyfeed.me/
84th & 3rd	http://84thand3rd.com/
Love Swah	http://www.loveswah.com/
The Sticky and Sweet	http://www.thestickyandsweet.com/
Flick Your Food	http://www.flickyourfood.com/
missklicious	http://www.missklicious.blogspot.com/
The Creamy Middles	http://the-creamy-middles.blogspot.com/
Just One More Spoon	http://justonemorespoon.wordpress.com/
Corridor Kitchen	http://www.corridorkitchen.com/
I Can't Believe It's Not A Food Blog	http://cantbelieveitsnotafoodblog.wordpress.com/
Food is our Religion	http://foodisourreligion.blogspot.com.au/
Cats Love Cooking	http://catslovecooking.com/
nic cooks	http://www.niccooks.com/
adobo down under	http://adobodownunder.blogspot.com.au/
Sugarlace	http://sugarlace.com
Angie Lives to Eat (and Cook)!	http://angielivestoeat.blogspot.com
Roaming Tales	http://www.roamingtales.com
The Pickled Cumquat	http://www.thepickledcumquat.com.au/
Fork It Food Blog	http://www.forkit.com.au

Yeah, we all got matching friendship bracelets.

Agent Orange

If there’s one thing that I love, it’s getting out of Sydney and enjoying cheese, in situ, at various locations around Australia and the world.

Last year, when I went to Paris and promised to cram you full of cheese blog posts like proverbial chestnuts in the squirrel cheeks of life, I truly disappointed you. I’d like to say it was because I got to Paris and it turned out their cheeses were really lame. But that would be a lie.

The real reason was that I was hit with a giddying bout of food poisoning on my flight, and had what shall hereafter be known only by its elusive epithet – the Tokyo Stopover. Please note that I also intend this to be the title of my first break-out Glam Hair Metal album.

But I digress.

Last weekend I went to a wonderful little town known as Orange, about 3 hours west of Sydney where they were hosting the Food of Orange District festival, also known as the F.O.O.D. Festival (hey guys, let’s be fair, country folks prefer the simple things in life – like the smell of a wheat harvest and outrageously contrived backcronyms).

Despite the fact that I’ve been visiting Orange for nigh on a quart-score (country talk for 5 years), I’ve never been to the F.O.O.D Festival, and I loved it! Some may say it was because of the night markets, complete with several glasses of Black Shiraz from Mortimers Wines. Some may say it’s because of the pâté I bought at the produce markets (which-i-totally-didn’t-eat-before-now-and-I-can-produce-a-photo-of-it-whenever-I-want-cause-it’s-delicious-and-uneaten). Some may say it’s the delightful dinner we had at the Racine Restaurant for a friend’s engagement.

There’s no one correct answer (B: Claire had one tub of pâté, and ate one tub of pâté far too quickly. Using the working space below, how many regrets does Claire have?)

Herewith, an image gallery of fun things in Orange.

"Borry" selling apples from Borrodell Vineyard.

Best friends 4 eva at the petting zoo.

Did I say the last one was my best friend? Ohhhh, that cute cow can cram it, because now I found THESE three! On closer inspection, the first one was a lamb, not a baby goat, but that doesn't mean she should be voted out of the group. She just wants to go to year 6 camp like the rest of you, and she promises not to tell Jess what you said behind the play equipment the other day.

Without baby goats, there would be no goat's cheese. I ate some of this delicious cheese (the one on the left, with the pesto) and it was truly amazing. 

I had it in a quinoa and roast lamb salad, with mung beans and cherry tomatoes. A nice tart flavour, without being too strong or goaty - a serious consideration when it comes to goat's cheese. I think it would work beautifully on pizzas, on crackers, in salads or just squirreled away in your cheeks for an after-dinner snack. 

I give the cheese 8 spuds.

And speaking of spuds...

...The potato stall. The man who ran this stall actually looked like a potato. But there was no way to take a photo without looking like a jerk from the big smoke. So I just photographed his delicious earth jewels and ran away.

I can't live, if living is without cheese

Can I suggest you play the following music while you read this? Cause this blog is about to get real.

Ever since I was young, I’ve been a “no sugar” kid. Not by choice, and not as an exhaustive rule (I’m sorry, have you even Cadbury Cream Eggs? They’re made from unicorn smiles! They should be eaten all the time).

As a result of this, cheese has always been my go-to at dessert time. You get to enjoy something delicious, you still have a plate in front of you while others enjoy dessert (so you don’t look like an abstemious poindexter) and you get to enjoy a delightfully bourgeois rite of passage:

“Jenkins! Pass the cheese and my favourite Chateau de Pique! Would you fancy taking a turn across the room and a brief Quadrille?”

Precisely! Cheese = winning at life.

But herein lies the problem. I went back to visit the very same doctor that told me all those years ago that I would no longer be able to eat sugar. It was a check up of sorts. I was happy. He was happy. The whole situation was fine (apart from overly-loud 1987 documentary on “Ayers Rock” showing in the waiting room).

But then it all went downhill. He looked me in the eyes and said to me “It’s only fair that I should let you know what you should know.”

(He didn’t, it just fits in neatly with the song playing on your computer right now. He actually said something along the lines of, “So I went through your bloodwork and there were some issues. You’re going to have to make a few dietary changes”...)

He told me the impossible.

[Wait here until chorus].

No more cheese.

No more creamy brie, no more Roaring Forties Blue, no more Ceviste de Scey and (I choked up a little here) no more goat’s cheese. The smellier the cheese, the more I had to give it up.

Doctor Zhivag-no then told me it was okay, because I could manage without cheese.

You know what?! No!

I can’t live, if living is without cheese! What’s the point?

From now on, I’ll try to bring you all I know about the cheeses I can eat. Ricotta (Really? REALLY? A clotted sandwich salve at best), firm un-aged cheddar and Sheep’s Milk cheese. But dear reader, I shall become an expert. I shall forge on and triumph!

If you have any suggestions on cheeses to try, let me know. Suggested coping mechanisms also welcome, but unfortunately alcohol is supposedly off the list too. Unless you count Scotch that has been bottled in the last 4 years.

Awesome.

For every cheese, there is a season: Turn, turn, turn

We all have our own variation on the three-second rule, and we all have our own breaking point that dictates when food is no longer kosher. Unless it's pork - that's never kosher.

One person’s three seconds might be another’s ten-seconds-with-a-bit-of-dust-on-it-and-is-that-seasoning-or-lint?-I-can’t-tell. One person might ditch the leftovers after the requisite two days, and another may be perfectly happy to eat a ten-foot hoagie sub several weeks after the mayonnaise has gone rancid.

Exhibit A.

But the three-second rule goes out the window when you’re dealing with cheese. And any true cheese-lover knows that timelines considered unacceptable for meatstuffs, drinking yoghurt and general perishables are TOTES fine for cheese.

Case in point: a recent secretive encounter with my new favourite cheesemonger at a nearby deli.

We’ve had a variety of conversations, Cheesemonger and I. Initially he seemed aloof and posh, but I realised he was just checking how serious I was about the sweet sweet dairy joy he was purveying. After a few return visits, I’d clearly made the cut and he was ready to show me the good stuff.

On this particular day, when I asked for a suggestion, he cast a few furtive sideways glances and leant forward over the glass counter, beckoning me closer.

“I have something for you,” he whispered conspiratorially, dipping his head towards a small balsa wood box at the back of his cabinet. “This stuff is not like anything you’ve ever tasted. But I warn you, the expiry date...she has, how you say, passed.”

Not stopping to think why his tone had suddenly shifted from wizened old sage, to cheap Jacques Clouseau parody, I gazed into the cabinet and saw it.

Epoisses fromage, AOC. A soft ripened cheese made from pasteurised cow’s milk, with a washed rind. Matured with Burgundy Brandy. Hand wrapped by the Gregorian monks of eastern Chalancey who were killed after making it, to forever protect the secret...I presume.

The Cheesemonger gave a slow, squinty nod.

“Other customers tell me that I shouldn’t be selling it because the date has passed. As though Australians really know when a cheese is good – pah! The expiry date is when it starts to really come alive. But others, they will say, ‘she is turning’. Fie on them.”

Fie on them indeed. I handed over a few worn silver coins for the cheese, excited by the prospect that it might serve as an anthropomorphic after-dinner treat, and I, the modern Prometheus, would get to bask in its reflected glory.

That night, we had a moment, the cheese and I. Let’s not lie, when I cut into the rind, it gave off a stink that would have made any self-respecting health inspector insist on the continuing importance of expiry date legislation. The innards were runny and smooth, and while the cheese was not yet turning, it was certainly asking for directions.

But in the truest sense of the word, it was sensational. Every sense was awakened: the smell (pungent), the sight (spotted with...mould?), the taste (Gregorian Brandy), the physical touch (viscous, best served in a large wine glass). I was delighted.

Three days later, I was still delighted.

A week later, it had a taken on its own quaint personality.

A two weeks and half weeks later, it started talking about said personality and discussing holiday plans, including how it would really love to take a break in a little cottage in the Cotswolds, because that would really show the Chesterton-Brown family a thing or two!

Yes, it had turned. When your cheese starts talking about time-share accommodation, it’s time to say goodbye.

With all the self-hatred of a maker rejection its creation, I cast the cheese out into the wilderness and left it to wander the desolate moors.

The next time I saw the Cheesemonger, he gave me a knowing nod. And as I looked down into the cabinet, another Epoisses fromage had risen up in its predecessors place.

An exercise in managing expectations

Remember Bodey Blaylock? Sure you do. When you were in the second grade he was absolutely the dreamiest boy in your class, and he had all of the Power Ranger figurines. And you just knew that when you grew up, Bodey would be the most handsome boy and he would have graduated from Power Ranger Academy himself.

But then, in the early days of 2012 you run into Bodey and he hasn’t graduated from P.R.A. He hasn’t even completed a course at the Power Rangers Finishing School for Morphin Boys. He is washed up and working at a rival Tokusatsu franchise that is of a much lower quality.

The point is, if you build up your expectations based on a rose-tinted memory, you will be disappointed.

Welcome to the world of Fourme D’Ambert.

It has been so long since I’ve written on this blog, and I recognised that you, dear reader, deserve a doozy of an oozy cheese to get you going again. I went to my local store and selected a mid-range, French sounding, smelly, aged delight.

What a mistake.

First I brought it home, and my plus one said it smelt like the medicated salve we use to wash the dog.

And I did not speak out, because I was not a medicated salve.

Then I opened the wrapping, and he said it smelt like his waterlogged work shoes.

But I did not speak out, because I was not a shoe.

Then I ate it. And I began to smell like the cheese. And there was no one left to speak for me. Cause those kids had left the building due to the stench of this damn rancid cheese.

For serious. I have had the smelliest, most nefarious and pungent cheeses that would have taken the rasping breath out of the maw of a crypt keeper. But this one is a cut above.

It’s not that tasty either. Sure I ate a lot of it, with the kind of slack-jawed, droopy-eyed stupor of a Yorkshireman, but I didn’t enjoy it.

And yes, I’m still eating it as I type. But I don’t think it would do the cheese justice to write about it when it is yellowing at the edges and peeling away from its rind in such a way. 

Much in the same way it’s not fair to judge Brooker when you bump into him ordering a double order of dumplings from his local takeaway, sporting a casual vinegar-stained pant and the shirt from his old Jacuzzi business.

But I tell you what, there’s nothing like seeing an old familiar friend.

Hello again cheese. How underwhelming to see you again.