The Cheese

The summer between my Freshman and Sophomore years of high school, my super-cool, new-parent cousins Jenna and Wilson from Santa Fe, New Mexico brought me with them on a European vacation as their babysitter for 15 month old Jack. I looked up to them both, and was incredibly flattered that they trusted me with baby Jack and wanted to spend over two weeks with me. Jenna was the epitome of a cool mom: a bilingual schoolteacher, and wore dresses and skirts almost every day with stylish sunglasses and had absolutely no sign of post-pregnancy weight gain. Wilson owned an up and coming photography gallery in Santa Fe. They were in the process of building a gorgeous house on the top of the hill where they would raise their beautiful family. I wanted to fit into their dream life.

We flew business class to London, and from there, visited Spain, Paris, and Corsica. It was quite luxurious: our accommodations were splendid, and of course we were well fed. I couldn’t help but feel as though my fifteen-year-old palate was a bit underdeveloped to be launching on such a sophisticated and globally renowned food experience. Jenna and Wilson were incredibly hospitable. Although I was merely the babysitter, they were equally invested in my experience. They paid for my entry into every museum, and watched Jack while I had a chance to browse the art. It was quite a dream come true, and made me want to live up to their generosity, and prove it was worth it for them to bring me along.

Over our first few days in Paris we went to a fresh food market. There were dozens of carts in close proximity lining a nearby park, all with dried hanging meats, handmade soaps, bits of clothing, and of course, cheese. Each cart owner was authentically dressed and crazed with the pace of the market, handing out food right and left to needy customers. We approached the cheese cart half cringing and half salivating over the mixed stinky scents of waxed rinds and the delicacies that they encased. While Jenna and Wilson thoughtfully tasted extensively aged and complex cheeses, a small round of provolone style cheese coated in herbs caught my eye. It looked organic and spry piled on top of many other yellowish blistering cheeses. I asked the person in plastic gloves to shave me a sliver, and melted with pleasure. It was like string cheese: simple and creamy, the essence of “dairy” but salty and chewy, with substance.

I don’t remember my exact outward reaction to the cheese, but it caused my cousins to earnestly fixate on supplying what they perceived to be my obsession for the rest of the trip. As soon as my first wheel ran out, they pioneered nearby markets to find another one. I have memories of the cheese on my breakfast plate every morning, in plastic baggies for midday snacks, and as a substitute for any cheese ingredient in any recipe we tried. The cheese came to represent their understanding of me, that something small could make me so incredibly elated, and that they could facilitate that by providing it for me. I also couldn’t help but feel innocent and childish by what I thought they saw as my immature fetish, and comfort food. If anything, I had hoped to fixate on something more sophisticated and impressive.

Our final cheese purchase was made only just a few days before we left. Jenna was predictably enthusiastic about her discovery of “the cheese” at a different market and insisted that I bring home an additional round as a souvenir. We left with two large rounds of cheese: one for me to eat over the next three days, and the other vacuum sealed so as to escape the drug dogs at customs. As the passing days decreased our cheese eating time, the chunks of cheese with each meal became larger and larger. We also decided just before leaving that it was a bad idea to bring the cheese through customs, dividing the entire thing at our last meal. The cheese became a challenge, an obstacle, and I eventually became very reluctant to eat it.

The cheese was the love of my life, and very soon after, the bane of my existence. It was a fixation that slowly turned to an aversion. Such conflicting feelings over the cheese lead to an all time low of my repulsion against it. We had a parabolic relationship, starting with an erotic obsession that was slowly overwhelmed by much too large amounts of the sticky, milky dairy. This slowly morphed into a loathing, but then in its absence, after months had gone by, worked back up to a craving and desire for the initial memories of the cheese.

I really do remember the initial magic of the cheese and long for it, I even salivate when thinking about the salty, creamy, garnished delicacy and fortunately, that is what has stuck with me through the entire conflicting relationship. This summer my family and I visited the Plaza Hotel in New York City, and browsed the newly constructed food hall. Gazing into the glass casing at the cheese counter, my heart skipped a beat as I saw a similarly sized wheel of herb-covered cheese, and immediately blabbed my association with it to a confused lady behind the glass who gave me a sample, but it wasn’t the same. I don’t even know if my memory of the cheese is accurate anymore. Between memories both of pure pleasure and repulsion, the hypothetical taste in my mouth could be completely inaccurate. It’s a taste that will never return to me unless it is in my mouth. Whenever I see a wheel of herb covered cheese at market, I will always ask for a small shaving off the top, not because I desperately crave the cheese, but just to see if it is the same as the one I know so well. Until then, I will be left feeling unresolved.