15 October 2014: Say Cheese!

say cheese!

Hi, my name is Jessica and I'm a cheese-aholic.

For those who know me, this probably comes as no surprise. For those who don't (or didn't realize the depth of my addiction), I ask you to take a look at the photo on the right. That is a graphic representation of the selection of cheeses I keep in our refrigerator on a daily basis. No joke. Before I wrote this post, I rifled through the fridge and pulled out every cheese I could find. (Did I mention we have a dorm-sized fridge? You can probably imagine how much of it is taken up by delicious dairy products.)

I wasn't always this cheesy (though my husband insists that's not true—I think he means a different kind of "cheesy"). I had a normal childhood filled with things like cheap cafeteria cheese pizza, mozzarella string cheese, American cheese slices, the occasional wedge of brie if my parents were hosting people for dinner whom they wanted to impress. I was never deprived of cheese, nor was I particularly partial to the stuff. As I got older and could control what I kept stocked in my own apartment refrigerator, I admit that cheese became a more frequent houseguest. Blocks of Colby jack, cheddar, bags of shredded parmesan—moderate amounts of dairy to supplement my otherwise dairy-light existence.

That all changed when I moved to Paris.

Everyone associates "good cheese" with Paris, and to be honest, I thought it was mainly a cliché until I lived here. Surely not everyone dines on brie every night as though it's Kraft slices? Surely the ostensive French obsession with all things cheesy couldn't really be so extensive—just like the French laugh doesn't really sound like the chef from Little Mermaid? Oh, how wrong I was. (About both—seriously, that cartoon was spot-on.)

The cheese aisle of any standard grocery store here in Paris is home to more varieties of cheesy goodness than any other I've had the pleasure to browse. Sheep cheese, goat cheese, cow cheese—these distinctions were never given much thought before I was faced with this plethora of divine ovine- and bovine-sourced dairy options. Not only is there brie, there are tons of different kinds of brie from different regions, each with their own distinctive "bouquet" (trust me, opening our fridge is not always the most pleasant olfactory experience).

I've observed the Parisian grocery customer in its natural habitat and discovered that cheese isn't selected merely for price, or look, or name recognition. Cheeses must be inspected before they're purchased, much like a wine snob—ahem, wine connoisseur—sniffs and swirls a glass before letting it trickle down his throat. Lids are lifted, wedges are sniffed and squeezed. It was only natural that I put these habits to my own use. Every grocery store trip now involves at least five minutes of ponderous cheese inhalation.

To give you a peek into how this addiction runs my life, I give you Exhibits A through G: In our refrigerator at the moment, we have packaged slices of both gouda and mimolette—cheese from distinctly different origins (one is smooth and creamy and Dutch, the other is snappy and cheddar-esque and French) but equally delicious when consumed as a snack or placed on a sandwich. We have a round of Le Rustique brie, which did not just attract me with its little picnic-blanket skirt (seriously, the box is lined with a red-and-white checkered cloth—too cute to pass up), but also with its delightfully pungent and unctuous bouquet. We have a generic herb-and-soft-cheese spread that's like Rondelé but not as expensive (perfect for spreading on a baguette for a sandwich or using as a dip for carrots), a bag of blended cheeses to throw on pasta, a wedge of Tomme Noire (a "rustic" French cheese from the Pyrenees Mountains that is amazingly creamy once you get over the fact that it's surrounded by a thin, black rind) and finally, the pièce de résistance: Cousteron (which my husband refers to as "crunchy cheese"). Cousteron is a mild cow's milk cheese from the Loire region (famed for its wine as well as its dairy) and is housed in a gritty, crunchy rind that takes a little getting used to but eventually makes it feel like the cheese comes with its own cracker. Gross? Only to the uninitiated.

If your mouth isn't watering at this point (or if it is, but because dairy makes you gag), that's okay. I wouldn't wish this affliction on anyone (except myself, because cheese is freakin' delicious). Those who live a dairy-free lifestyle talk about the addictive properties of cheese, that your body responds to the sugars like it would to a drug. I believe that. When I get hungry and the stomach juices are churning, I can't just have any snack—I have to have cheese. My meals aren't complete without cheese (I even get the cheese option at Indian restaurants—the madness!). I think about cheese, I dream about cheese, I shop for cheese, I research cheese...and most importantly, I eat cheese. A lot of it.

I am the cheese, and while this cheese doesn't stand alone (my lactose-intolerant husband is my biggest enabler and co-cheese-spirator), there could definitely be more of us out there. May I interest you in a nice wedge of brie?...Perhaps a slice of gouda?...A mozzarella ball? Eh? Eh?? C'mon, lemme hook you up...