Cheese

Eastside Road, April 29, 2010—

NOT MUCH GOOD at keeping New Year's resolutions, no, I'm not. I told myself (and maybe, indiscreetly, a few others) that I was going to try to eat cheese more regularly this year — not so much for nutritive reasons, but out of intellectual curiosity. It's such a vast subject, and though it can be expensive, and ultimately perhaps not all that good for the health, but it sure can be pleasurable.

I like cheese, selectively. One of the things I like about the Netherlands is the cheese: farmhouse Gouda and Amsterdammer; Remeker; nagelkaas from Friesland. You eat cheese, several kinds of it, at breakfast.

Spanish cheese: Mahon, Manchego. Italian cheese, maybe best of all: Robiola, Castelmagno, Pecorino, Parmagiano. American cheese, particularly Cowgirl Creamery, whose Peg Smith is an old friend, and who encouraged me in my resolution. I'm afraid I've let her down.

Tonight, continuing the refrigerator-emptying project, Lindsey reminded me of the cheese. One tiny little lost morsel had been there quite some time, losing all its character; another larger piece, bought more recently, still had a bit of flavor. Both were hard cheeses. At any rate tonight they were; I think they started out that way. We had a mess of chard, too, and a couple of English muffins, and the usual green salad. Hours later the taste of the cheese is still in my mouth, even after a caffè corretto; it's time to brush my teeth and hit the hay. Next week I'll take up that resolution in earnest.

Nero d'Avola