Fromage Part II: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

The French attitude towards cheese is sort of like the porn industry’s attitude towards sex…no matter how bizarre your tastes are; someone out there is making something for you.

“Oh dear god, this is ridiculous.  MB – please, seriously!”  I have just opened our refrigerator and the smell of cheese has become completely over-whelming.  I am assaulted, almost knocked backwards by the pungent odour.    

“Quoi?”  He replies, as he wanders into the kitchen, unbothered.

“Are you really going to tell me you can’t smell this?”  I say, one hand on the refrigerator door and the other on my hip. 

“Ouais!!!  It smells amazing!”  I can practically see his tongue start to salivate. 

“Okay, I know, honey, but there is cheese from four months ago in there.”

“Ah oui?  Which ones?  They are probably perfect now!”

I can see my point is not getting across. 

“Okay, sweetie”, I say in my nicest voice, the same voice I would use if I were trying to coax a rabid dog away from a bone.  “The cheese is taking up about two-thirds of the fridge.”

“Ouais…”  He replies, nervously.

“We don’t have room for other groceries.”

He remains unphased, apparently a diet consisting entirely of cheese would be completely acceptable for him.

“I really need you to go through all this stuff and figure out which ones we are going to keep and which ones we are going to get rid of…please!” 

He looks like he’s been shot, and suddenly I feel no better than the Nazi officer in Sophie’s Choice.       

He gives me a sullen look, and then slowly begins to pull the cheese out of the refrigerator (it ends up covering the entire counter).  Gingerly, he opens each paper to see what treasure lies within.  There is brie from the market, the over-powering goat cheese that we bought from the farm in the mountains, the St. Felician that is almost completely liquid, the hard, soft, sweet, and bitter blues. The variety of mold is stunning.  I remember a cheese he once gave me that apparently had tiny little maggots in the surface which made it appear as though it were moving, ever so slightly.  Silently, I pray that we haven’t let that remain in the fridge for two months. 

He pulls out one huge round of what was once cheese and is now primarily a science experiment.

“Ah, okay, maybe this one we can get rid of,” he says, looking up at me. 

I stand stock-still and say nothing, not wanting to frighten away this inclination.

“No, what?  Am I crezee (crazy)?”  He looks relieved, as though he has just missed an incredibly close call with death.  “We can use this to make something great!  Maybe tartiflette!”  (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tartiflette)

I think about this for a minute.  I mean, I really do like tartiflette.  Maybe we should go on and keep this cheese but others definitely have to go.

He continues on to the next one.  The mold is so thick I can’t even see the cheese underneath. 

“Oh MB, seriously, this ones gotta go!”

He cuts off one thick side to reveal the clean part of the cheese, and holds it up to my nose.  I almost pass out from the intensity of the smell…at the same time; my mouth starts to water a bit.  Damn you, tastebuds, you traitors!

“Perhaps in a fondue?”  MB looks at me and smiles.  He can sense my weakening resolve.

As we move through the cheese on the counter, a scraping of mold here, and a little trimming there creates the appropriate excuses to keep all the cheese.  One by one, they all end up returning to the refrigerator, only better organized. 

Finally, we come to the last ones.   He finds two little rounds of hard goat cheese (MB’s favorite), they are stuck together, one on top of the other, glued by a layer of dense, black, gooey-looking fungus.     He pulls them apart, and removes the offending fungus, then attempts to plunge a knife into the middle of one of them.  The knife nearly breaks in the process.  He pulls out a sharper knife and through great struggles, finally penetrates the cheese.  He pops a piece into his mouth and I hear a ‘crack’.

“Woah!”  He sticks a finger in his mouth. 

“What?  Is everything okay?  Oh my god, did you chip your tooth?”

“No, ca va.  I thought for a minute, I had though!” 

“Okay, so this one we can get rid of then?”

“Mais no…it is perfect, you want a piece?”

I look at him like he is crazy.  This man wants me to eat something that he almost cracked a tooth on. 

“Well, maybe just a little one.”

Congratulations! You’re having a cheese baby!

For most of my life I have basically fluctuated between the same ten pounds; I have either been at the low end or the high end since I was about 16.  In recent years, (years spent in outdoor adventure lands like Australia and New Zealand) I have stayed at the low-end.  However, after only 3 months in France I am 5 pounds up and creeping towards my highest weight.  I don’t often weigh myself; I think it is an overly-critical, typically inaccurate, and a cruel thing to do to oneself; rather, I judge weight by one pair of jeans.  If they fit perfectly then I am doing alright, if they are loose then I’m doing better than alright, and if they are tight then it is time to make the tough choices.

 For the last few weeks, I have been ignoring the ill-fit of my favorite pair of Sevens but when I arrived for my physical at the consulate a few days ago there was no hiding it; there were two extra kilos (4.4 lbs) that did not exist a few months back. 

“Don’t worry, you are normal, see,” said the nurse as she showed me a chart with my weight on it.  “Ca va?”  Not ‘ca va’.

Later, on the tram ride home, I grimaced as I re-adjusted my jeans to cover my newly acquired gut that I lovingly refer to as my cheese baby.   I know that I need to cut back and be more reasonable about what I am eating but I’m just not sure how to do it (I ponder this as I drop egg yolks into the blender to make homemade mayonnaise).  Is it really reasonable to ask any food-loving person to cut back on calories after arriving in France?  It would be like asking Keith Richards to hang out with a drug cartel for a year but stay clean.

When I arrived, I had no idea how much trouble I was going to be in.  I have felt like the awe-struck Julia Child in Julie&Julia when she arrives in Paris and after tasting an exquisite dish exclaims, “the French eat French food everyday!”   On my second day in town I was riding through city centre and I thought to myself, cool, there are so many good French restaurants!  Doh!  I have made myself so accustomed to looking for French restaurants in every town I’ve lived in that I literally didn’t think about the fact that I was in France (first red flag).  For the first few weeks, I regularly dined on lunches consisting of baguette, pate, and cheese (glorious cheese) followed by 3 course dinners out.  Hey, I was in Europe now, there’s no getting fat, right?  I’ve turned into a street dog, which is afraid at any moment; their food bowl will be taken away.  Eat it now, eat it all now!

Somehow, I am going to have to convince myself that France is not going to stop producing cheese and foie-gras, that they will continue to provide me with warm, crusty bread and cream laden sauces.  I need to remember that I actually live here and that this isn’t a vacation…I have over a year to try to eat France.