Twelve Steps to a Roquefort-Free Life
In life one faces many serious crises. Each year we northerners naively welcome spring as we think of the explosion of green, the cacophony of birds returning to their summer homes, and the return of water to its more welcoming liquid state. How is it that we manage to forget the most disturbing, ugly and regrettable consequence of spring--public exposure? Yes, it’s getting warm in Toulouse, and the clothes are coming off. There is no turning back to the comfort of winter clothes; it’s time to face the flesh.
I thought I would be more ready than normal this year for this unfortunate annual event. After all, living without a car, I bicycle or walk everywhere. At a minimum, I spend over an hour a day bicycling back and forth to school. When we first arrived I felt my clothes get looser as a few extra pounds melted off. French pastries and French cheeses equaled weight loss. I was living the “French paradox.” I had found heaven. That was, however, until I made a pilgrimage to Roquefort-sur-Soulzon.
Roquefort-sur-Soulzon, about 2.5 hours drive from Toulouse, is the home of the caves that produce the famous Roquefort cheese. No cheese can bear the name Roquefort unless it was matured at least 90 days in the caves of Roquefort-sur-Soulzon. In fact, it can only be made with the unpasteurized milk of a particular breed of sheep (Lacaune), and the sheep must be raised in a specifically defined area of France surrounding Roquefort-sur-Soulzon. (In times of drought and milk shortages exceptions can be made, and Lacaune milk from the Pyrenées and Corsica can be authorized for use.)
These strict rules must be met in order for a cheese to meet the AOC (“Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée”) requirements in France. The AOC designation means that to be called Roquefort, the cheese must be produced in a traditional manner with products originating from a specific geographic region. Roquefort was the first cheese recognized with the AOC distinction; it actually marked the beginning of the AOC system in France, a system which has been at least partly replicated by other countries, including the United States. Currently there are over 40 AOC cheeses and about 70 AOC wines in France.
The blue fuzzy mold in Roquefort is created by any of the three varieties of the Roquefort fungus (Penicillium roquefort) that is added to the milk early in the cheese-making process. Each variety creates a unique flavor. This microscopic fungus occurs naturally in the Roquefort caves but is cultivated by the cheese companies on leavened bread made from rye and wheat flour. The spores of this fungus create a blue-green powder. It takes just 4 grams of the spores (approximately 80 to 120 thousand million little bitty spores) to make 400 cheese wheels, with a typical wheel providing between five and six pounds of cheese.
The cheese actually begins its life outside of the famous Roquefort caves. The cheese dairies in other towns create the big wheels of white cheese that weigh just under 6.5 pounds when they arrive in Roquefort. Each of these wheels is made from a little over 3 gallons (12 liters) of sheep’s milk. The fungus-containing milk is curdled using rennet, the curds are separated from the whey, the cheese is shaped into wheels and the wheels are left to drain for three days, after which they are rubbed with sea salt and taken to the Roquefort caves. It is in the Roquefort caves that the magic begins.
The Roquefort caves are a geologic fluke. Several million years ago the Combalou Mountain partly collapsed as a result of climatic events. The result was a collection of caves in the rock that have a moist, cool and unusually stable microclimate that is naturally ventilated by the many cracks in and between the rocks that were created when the mountain collapsed. The master cheesemakers can further control the already stable climate in the caves by closing and opening the “fleurines,” the naturally occurring vents that are provided by the cracks. Before settling in for their 90 days in the caves, the cheese wheels are pierced with 48 needles to ensure that they are well aerated with the special air of the caves.
The first 14-25 days in the cave are for “ripening” the cheese. This is when the fungus is allowed to go wild and create blue veins (and flavor!) throughout the cheese, which is softened by the ripening process. Roquefort making is not just a science, it is an art, and it is the Master-Ripener who decides when the cheese is finished ripening and should move on to maturation. The progress of the fungus is slowed down during maturation by wrapping the cheese in tinfoil to deprive the little guys of air. Don’t worry, the cute little fellas don’t die of asphyxiation, but they’re less active.
The cheeses are wrapped by women called “cabanières” who can wrap 100 cheeses in an hour, or 750 cheeses a day. There was a comment made during one of our tours of the caves that suggested that only women can wrap the cheeses because of their smaller hands. (The tour was in French, so, as always, be wary of my translations). I’m not really buying the smaller hands bit; I bet men could manage to wrap a few cheeses now and then if they wanted to. But, let’s face it, wrapping 750 cheese wheels a day can’t be the most stimulating of jobs, even if it is Roquefort. Smart move to insist that men’s hands are simply too big for this tedious work.
The female-wrapped cheeses are stored in cold rooms in the caves for several months during the maturation process. They are between 4 and 12 months old by the end of the maturation stage. During these formative months in the life of the cheese, the cheese and milk undergo 200 quality control tests to make sure that they are up to snuff. Ultimately, it is the Master-Ripener who decides when the cheeses are ready to be sold.
Those of you who find the idea of eating fungus-infested cheese less than appetizing, might be wondering how this doubtful food ritual began. The legend is that a young shepherd accidentally left behind some milk curd on a piece of rye bread in one of the Roquefort caves. He returned weeks later and found the milk curd covered with mold. Desperate, he ate it anyway and the tradition of Roquefort began.
As special as the Roquefort cheeses are, I can’t say that my addiction is limited to the AOC Roquefort; any blue cheese will do. In fact, I’m quite fond of Bleu d’Auvergne, another creamy, AOC blue cheese which is half the cost of Roquefort and made of cow’s milk. Cow’s milk, sheep’s milk—it doesn’t matter, if it’s got blue fuzzy mold throughout it, I’m there. Actually, the addiction isn’t exactly limited to blue cheeses, although these are probably the most tempting.
I have been aware for many years that I have a particular weakness for blue cheeses, and my response has been simply to severely limit my purchases to moderate amounts a few times each year. This strategy worked well until our friends Sven and Larisa invited us on a pilgrimage to the Roquefort caves. Sven, a misnamed Frenchman, knew that I had a weakness for French cheeses so tempted me with this evil proposal, much like Eve, the apple and the snake-you know the story. Needless to say, I jumped at the chance, not realizing that this would be the beginning of my downfall as I became a slave to lipids of any sort.
At first it started out as an interesting jaunt through some caves, learning the details of cheesemaking and the peculiarities of the Roquefort caves. Then we hit the sampling room and the gift shop. We greedily sampled the three different flavors of Roquefort (made from the three different strains of fungus). Unable to decide among the three flavors and knowing that my sister Donna and her husband Dan would soon be visiting, I bought the equivalent of half a wheel of cheese consisting of each of the three strains. Surely Donna and Dan would want to try each of the three Roquefort strains.
It was Sunday that I bought the three pounds of Roquefort (plus some other cheeses that I just knew they would love to try). By Tuesday, I had polished off two of the strains and the third one was calling out to me--so much for the great Roquefort cheese test that I had planned to offer Donna and Dan. Well at least they could still taste the “traditional” strain, which, with amazing will power, I managed to leave untouched until they arrived a week later.
Of course it wasn’t just cheese that we indulged in during Donna and Dan’s visit. There were special French meats, chocolates and pastries that had to be sampled. After they left we had a little going-away fête for Sven and Larisa, who were moving to Paris, with more traditional meats and cheeses cooked on our electric “raclette” maker. Raclette, a traditional French favorite, is sinfully easy to prepare as you simply melt cheese on the raclette maker and pour it over bread and potatoes.
I thought I would be more ready than normal this year for this unfortunate annual event. After all, living without a car, I bicycle or walk everywhere. At a minimum, I spend over an hour a day bicycling back and forth to school. When we first arrived I felt my clothes get looser as a few extra pounds melted off. French pastries and French cheeses equaled weight loss. I was living the “French paradox.” I had found heaven. That was, however, until I made a pilgrimage to Roquefort-sur-Soulzon.
Roquefort-sur-Soulzon, about 2.5 hours drive from Toulouse, is the home of the caves that produce the famous Roquefort cheese. No cheese can bear the name Roquefort unless it was matured at least 90 days in the caves of Roquefort-sur-Soulzon. In fact, it can only be made with the unpasteurized milk of a particular breed of sheep (Lacaune), and the sheep must be raised in a specifically defined area of France surrounding Roquefort-sur-Soulzon. (In times of drought and milk shortages exceptions can be made, and Lacaune milk from the Pyrenées and Corsica can be authorized for use.)
These strict rules must be met in order for a cheese to meet the AOC (“Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée”) requirements in France. The AOC designation means that to be called Roquefort, the cheese must be produced in a traditional manner with products originating from a specific geographic region. Roquefort was the first cheese recognized with the AOC distinction; it actually marked the beginning of the AOC system in France, a system which has been at least partly replicated by other countries, including the United States. Currently there are over 40 AOC cheeses and about 70 AOC wines in France.
The blue fuzzy mold in Roquefort is created by any of the three varieties of the Roquefort fungus (Penicillium roquefort) that is added to the milk early in the cheese-making process. Each variety creates a unique flavor. This microscopic fungus occurs naturally in the Roquefort caves but is cultivated by the cheese companies on leavened bread made from rye and wheat flour. The spores of this fungus create a blue-green powder. It takes just 4 grams of the spores (approximately 80 to 120 thousand million little bitty spores) to make 400 cheese wheels, with a typical wheel providing between five and six pounds of cheese.
The cheese actually begins its life outside of the famous Roquefort caves. The cheese dairies in other towns create the big wheels of white cheese that weigh just under 6.5 pounds when they arrive in Roquefort. Each of these wheels is made from a little over 3 gallons (12 liters) of sheep’s milk. The fungus-containing milk is curdled using rennet, the curds are separated from the whey, the cheese is shaped into wheels and the wheels are left to drain for three days, after which they are rubbed with sea salt and taken to the Roquefort caves. It is in the Roquefort caves that the magic begins.
The Roquefort caves are a geologic fluke. Several million years ago the Combalou Mountain partly collapsed as a result of climatic events. The result was a collection of caves in the rock that have a moist, cool and unusually stable microclimate that is naturally ventilated by the many cracks in and between the rocks that were created when the mountain collapsed. The master cheesemakers can further control the already stable climate in the caves by closing and opening the “fleurines,” the naturally occurring vents that are provided by the cracks. Before settling in for their 90 days in the caves, the cheese wheels are pierced with 48 needles to ensure that they are well aerated with the special air of the caves.
The first 14-25 days in the cave are for “ripening” the cheese. This is when the fungus is allowed to go wild and create blue veins (and flavor!) throughout the cheese, which is softened by the ripening process. Roquefort making is not just a science, it is an art, and it is the Master-Ripener who decides when the cheese is finished ripening and should move on to maturation. The progress of the fungus is slowed down during maturation by wrapping the cheese in tinfoil to deprive the little guys of air. Don’t worry, the cute little fellas don’t die of asphyxiation, but they’re less active.
The cheeses are wrapped by women called “cabanières” who can wrap 100 cheeses in an hour, or 750 cheeses a day. There was a comment made during one of our tours of the caves that suggested that only women can wrap the cheeses because of their smaller hands. (The tour was in French, so, as always, be wary of my translations). I’m not really buying the smaller hands bit; I bet men could manage to wrap a few cheeses now and then if they wanted to. But, let’s face it, wrapping 750 cheese wheels a day can’t be the most stimulating of jobs, even if it is Roquefort. Smart move to insist that men’s hands are simply too big for this tedious work.
The female-wrapped cheeses are stored in cold rooms in the caves for several months during the maturation process. They are between 4 and 12 months old by the end of the maturation stage. During these formative months in the life of the cheese, the cheese and milk undergo 200 quality control tests to make sure that they are up to snuff. Ultimately, it is the Master-Ripener who decides when the cheeses are ready to be sold.
Those of you who find the idea of eating fungus-infested cheese less than appetizing, might be wondering how this doubtful food ritual began. The legend is that a young shepherd accidentally left behind some milk curd on a piece of rye bread in one of the Roquefort caves. He returned weeks later and found the milk curd covered with mold. Desperate, he ate it anyway and the tradition of Roquefort began.
As special as the Roquefort cheeses are, I can’t say that my addiction is limited to the AOC Roquefort; any blue cheese will do. In fact, I’m quite fond of Bleu d’Auvergne, another creamy, AOC blue cheese which is half the cost of Roquefort and made of cow’s milk. Cow’s milk, sheep’s milk—it doesn’t matter, if it’s got blue fuzzy mold throughout it, I’m there. Actually, the addiction isn’t exactly limited to blue cheeses, although these are probably the most tempting.
I have been aware for many years that I have a particular weakness for blue cheeses, and my response has been simply to severely limit my purchases to moderate amounts a few times each year. This strategy worked well until our friends Sven and Larisa invited us on a pilgrimage to the Roquefort caves. Sven, a misnamed Frenchman, knew that I had a weakness for French cheeses so tempted me with this evil proposal, much like Eve, the apple and the snake-you know the story. Needless to say, I jumped at the chance, not realizing that this would be the beginning of my downfall as I became a slave to lipids of any sort.
At first it started out as an interesting jaunt through some caves, learning the details of cheesemaking and the peculiarities of the Roquefort caves. Then we hit the sampling room and the gift shop. We greedily sampled the three different flavors of Roquefort (made from the three different strains of fungus). Unable to decide among the three flavors and knowing that my sister Donna and her husband Dan would soon be visiting, I bought the equivalent of half a wheel of cheese consisting of each of the three strains. Surely Donna and Dan would want to try each of the three Roquefort strains.
It was Sunday that I bought the three pounds of Roquefort (plus some other cheeses that I just knew they would love to try). By Tuesday, I had polished off two of the strains and the third one was calling out to me--so much for the great Roquefort cheese test that I had planned to offer Donna and Dan. Well at least they could still taste the “traditional” strain, which, with amazing will power, I managed to leave untouched until they arrived a week later.
Of course it wasn’t just cheese that we indulged in during Donna and Dan’s visit. There were special French meats, chocolates and pastries that had to be sampled. After they left we had a little going-away fête for Sven and Larisa, who were moving to Paris, with more traditional meats and cheeses cooked on our electric “raclette” maker. Raclette, a traditional French favorite, is sinfully easy to prepare as you simply melt cheese on the raclette maker and pour it over bread and potatoes.
Naturally there were leftovers to consume which we managed to polish off just in time for our friend Zoey's arrival. Of course we also needed to make sure that Zoey sampled her share of French cheeses (including Roquefort of course), chocolates and pastries. This time, more aware of my problem, I waited until minutes after she arrived to buy the Roquefort.
This brings me to the ugly part of this story. It was this past Friday when I put on my usually baggy pants that I knew something was amiss. I looked in the mirror and screamed. Even kind-hearted Marty had to agree that perhaps something regretful had occurred.
I was going to be svelte when I returned home. You would have been salivating with envy knowing that not only have I lived in France this year eating everything in sight, but that I managed to be trim to boot. That dream came crashing down when I realized that my thighs were expanding faster than the European Union. I spent the last two days trying to convince myself that it was water retention, but I have had to concede the ugly truth. It is time for a twelve-step program.
Step 1: My name is Nancy. I am unable to control my consumption of Roquefort, and my life and my thighs have become unmanageable.
Step 2: A power greater than myself can restore me to sanity (namely heavy locks and chains on the refrigerator).
Step 3: I have turned my will over to a higher power. (And this higher power so far seems to agree that I need to consume large quantities of cheese regularly.)
Step 4: I have made a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself and found myself lacking (except, of course, in weight).
Step 5: I have admitted to a higher power, myself, Marty and now all of you, the exact nature of my wrongs.
Step 6: I am entirely ready to have all these defects in character removed (but it doesn’t seem to be happening too quickly).
Step 7: I humbly request that these shortcomings be removed (along with those few extra pounds)
Step 8-12: I’m going to decline following steps 8-12 for now. Being a newcomer to the Twelve Steps, I’m not expected to take them all (those really are the rules for newbies). Besides, I’m not budging beyond Step 7 until I see some results.
I leave for the United States in less than 24 hours. It’s too late. My only salvation is that I will be home for too brief a period for anyone besides my parents to see me before I head on to a week-long seminar in Vermont. My parents think it is healthier to be chubby, so maybe there is salvation. In any case, there is still a big hunk of cheese left in the fridge that has to be consumed before we leave. I’ve learned my lesson, it’s Parmesan.
This brings me to the ugly part of this story. It was this past Friday when I put on my usually baggy pants that I knew something was amiss. I looked in the mirror and screamed. Even kind-hearted Marty had to agree that perhaps something regretful had occurred.
I was going to be svelte when I returned home. You would have been salivating with envy knowing that not only have I lived in France this year eating everything in sight, but that I managed to be trim to boot. That dream came crashing down when I realized that my thighs were expanding faster than the European Union. I spent the last two days trying to convince myself that it was water retention, but I have had to concede the ugly truth. It is time for a twelve-step program.
Step 1: My name is Nancy. I am unable to control my consumption of Roquefort, and my life and my thighs have become unmanageable.
Step 2: A power greater than myself can restore me to sanity (namely heavy locks and chains on the refrigerator).
Step 3: I have turned my will over to a higher power. (And this higher power so far seems to agree that I need to consume large quantities of cheese regularly.)
Step 4: I have made a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself and found myself lacking (except, of course, in weight).
Step 5: I have admitted to a higher power, myself, Marty and now all of you, the exact nature of my wrongs.
Step 6: I am entirely ready to have all these defects in character removed (but it doesn’t seem to be happening too quickly).
Step 7: I humbly request that these shortcomings be removed (along with those few extra pounds)
Step 8-12: I’m going to decline following steps 8-12 for now. Being a newcomer to the Twelve Steps, I’m not expected to take them all (those really are the rules for newbies). Besides, I’m not budging beyond Step 7 until I see some results.
I leave for the United States in less than 24 hours. It’s too late. My only salvation is that I will be home for too brief a period for anyone besides my parents to see me before I head on to a week-long seminar in Vermont. My parents think it is healthier to be chubby, so maybe there is salvation. In any case, there is still a big hunk of cheese left in the fridge that has to be consumed before we leave. I’ve learned my lesson, it’s Parmesan.
The Village of Roquefort-sur-Soulzon
Happy Cheese Eaters
Fake Cheese Wheels in Fake Cave (but you get the idea)
posted by Nancy at 4:53 AM
1 Comments:
I am facing my own 12-point program trying to reverse the deterioration of my fitness and on-coming problem of obesity. I am facing a physical with my marathon-running doctor. She is always very hard on me concerning the weight I've gained since leaving the boating lifestyle. In fact, I was doing fairly well until I took my first step on French property-Air France. From my first French airplane meal until my last, 2 weeks later, I managed to try every morsel of cheese, pastry, bread and meat available. In fact, anything with plenty of fat. Donna and I enjoyed it all-well, almost. (What was in that sausage, anyway?) To add insult to injury, we followed our trip to France with a trip to Texas where we loaded up on Mexican food, Bar-B-Q, Soul food, pork roast and any other fat-laden food you can name.
Your next two guests are Mike and Carol. Mike is picky enough to possibly survive this culinary expedition without doing much arterial damage. However, we're worried about Carol.
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