I didn’t grow up in Wisconsin, but I’ve lived here longer than I’ve lived anywhere else, so I guess I’m an honorary cheesehead. In Wisconsin, we take our cheese very seriously. A local grocery store has a self-contained, refrigerated, walk-in cheese room, with generous samples ready to stab with toothpicks at every turn.
“Twenty nations from all over the world shipped a total of 50,000 pounds of cheese to be judged at the biennial contest sponsored by the Wisconsin Cheese Makers Association. Thirty judges from 15 nations will sniff and taste through Thursday, when they’ll crown the champion.”
If you think I am, in the words of Ricky Gervais, “having a laugh,” or that I am writing this tongue in cheek (what is the typing equivalent of “tongue in cheek”?), I am not. I am no cynic.
We all need our own cheese in our life, something to obsess over in a healthy way, a specialty that is our own, the prospect of which makes it easier to get up in the morning. Something that we work steadily toward becoming more of an expert on, regardless of our beginning level of expertise or whether we ever do it for pay or fame. Something for which we can find other people who share our interest or obsession, and about which we can talk or think or write.
My cheese changes, depending on the seasons and my moods. Sometimes it’s knitting and crocheting. I love searching the Internet for free patterns, imagining how I can use my stash, and beginning (and even sometimes finishing) new projects. Other times it’s cooking, especially when my schedule is loose and flexible, with plenty of time to saute and simmer and stew, or during the holidays, when I can infuse the house with the smells of cinnamon and cardamom. Reading and writing are my perennial cheeses. I can never get enough.
Have you been missing out on some everyday intensity? Maybe you need some stinky cheese to poke your nose in.
