One of the more distinct memories of my Swiss grandfather is smelly cheese. He would sit in his silence at my grandmother's table. At my mother's table when he was a guest in our home--and he would eat his smelly cheese.
I live in fear of smelly cheese. Of mold covered cheese. Or the combo of both. Six years ago, when we had arrived at our apartment in Niort France, our hosts had stocked the fridge with beautiful things--except for the smelly cheese. To even open the fridge even slightly, emitted a smell so horrible, I would have to escape the kitchen. Tony was brave. He tasted it. Eventually, the cheese met the garbage can. The outside garbage can.
When we buy a hunk of cheese at the Coop, we are careful to go with a standard emmental, a mild, hard cheese that always tastes and smells good. But after a few days of buying "safe" cheese, I see a round of pink cheese. My curious taste buds are piqued. I want to try it. Tony remembers a pink cheese we picked up at an outdoor market in France and how delicious it was. But it's a too-big round of pink cheese.
The pink cheese puts me in cheese-bravery mode. I feel bold and daring. "This one looks good." I squeeze the new wedge for softness, and it's not too soft. Risky, but we buy the cheese.
We sit on the top of the Shilthorn, surrounded by a vast beauty. We will dine on this austere mountain. I open the cheese. Oh no. I took a horrible risk and now I reap.. I'm flooded with Grandpa memories.
We bought smelly cheese! But we will have to live with it, so I try it. I smear a little on my crusty seeded roll. It's not bad. It's actually mellow-smelly. Tolerably tasty. Tony doesn't mind it.
I put the leftover cheese in my back pack. The smell follows me all the way down the mountain. On the gondola. On the bus. On the train. The smell is on my hands. I wonder if other people can smell it. Am I "that" tourist?
We contemplate throwing it away, but I insist on giving it another chance. It takes its second chance, and now when we open the fridge, its odor escapes.
The next morning, there is nothing else for breakfast. I smear a little on a roll. It's actually good. Am I just too hungry?
The cut-off rind, I left on the table after putting the leftover cheese back in the fridge. Even its rinds have left a distinct smell. Tony complains. It has become my cheese, my problem. I wrap the rinds and put them in the trash under the sink. How long with it take for room temperature rinds to permeate the chalet?
There are four bites left. But last night we made the mistake or the better choice--we bought another small hunk of cheese. It's emmental.
The mellow-smelling emmental has brought us to our senses.
The smelly cheese finally meets its fate.
Comments