Cheese Ball
Folks who knew a younger me
remember that I was a fast runner
but not remarkable on defense
Not enough time spent in practice
No batting cage in my backyard
I could throw a one-hopper
from the centerfield fence to the catcher’s mitt
but had to be told, in vain,
what a cut-off situation was
that strength was not always strategy
that patience at the plate passes on cheese
I never hit a home run, in my short stint as a Dixie League ballplayer, though I do maintain that I did get an in-the-park homer in T-ball but had to be called back to second base for some reason that is still not clear to me. I do have images in my memory of pretty regularly getting myself caught out by popping up infield fly balls. You see, in my lack of experience, I was often guilty of zealously swinging at cheese. Oh well. I did get to watch Murphy play in the Astrodome. You can’t take that away from me.
Cheese – I like cheese with a fondness that has far outlived any interest that I may have once had in chasing balls. I remember walking down the street with my grandmother and ordering grilled cheese sandwiches at a diner that is no longer there. Cheese toast was her breakfast specialty. Cheese and crackers for an afternoon snack. Meager selections perhaps, but necessities from the days when parents wanted only to get calories into children whom they thought too skinny, who pediatricians thought were too fat. These days, I have the opportunity to sample respectable cheese just often enough that it remains a luxury and maintains it’s place in my heart – and perhaps in my arteries. I digress.
I am trying to instill in my four children an appreciation for a perfectly grilled cheese sandwich. I’ve given up on my wife. She’s still afraid of fat – turns up her nose at store-bought mayonnaise (except when I use it as the heat-conducting lipid on the outside of the bread). In my efforts to mold my children’s habits, I am being reminded just how intimidating something like cheese can be.
“Why is blue cheese blue,” eldest daughter asks.
“Because of mold,” comes mother’s reply.
Penicillium to be exact. A smelly bacteria found, like most wonderful things, by accident in the damp caves where cheese makers stored their cheese. The idea of good mold is a tough sell. Would you try that stuff if someone you trusted wasn’t shoving it under your nose? How hungry would you have to be?
If wine is glorified grape juice, then I offer that cheese is glorified milk. And fit for a kingly meal of bread and wine. The stuff of maturity. Stuff that takes time and know-how. Stuff that you have to develop a taste for.
“The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese,” wrote G K Chesterton, who was clearly a turophiliaca, around the turn of the 20th century. This may have not been the case even before his time, as has been pointed out in the excellent article Cheese Poet, over at Patheos, which pits Chesterton against 19th century poet James McIntyre.b At any rate, poets have certainly rectified the oversight with more than enough cheesy poetry since Chesterton’s time.
As one might suspect, Robert Farrar Capon had a thing or two to say on the subject of cheese. He saw food as ministry, and ministries aim to increase fellowship and return thanksgiving where it is due. The table provides just such an arena.
“He told his readers to save money by throwing the junk food (such as supermarket cheese with ‘the texture, but nowhere near the flavor, of rubber gloves’) out of their shopping basket. Then they could buy something decent instead—such as the best available butter. ‘The realm of the irreplaceable is no place to count cost,’ he wrote in Supper of the Lamb, a metaphysical treatise on cooking published in 1967 and popular ever since.” c
In her book Eating With Joy: Redeeming God’s Gift of Food, Rachel Marie Stone writes:
“Once, when I still feared pleasure in food as potentially dangerous, I tried to make macaroni and cheese. But instead of good old-fashioned elbow pasta, I used whole wheat noodles. Instead of whole milk, I used soy milk. I did put a bit of real cheese in there but cut the amount by three-quarters and replaced the rest with pureed carrot. It was awful, truly awful, and not the kind of accidental awful that happens to every cook occasionally. It was awful by design, awful because it wasn’t intended to bring enjoyment — it was intended to be *healthy*…Maybe it was, in a limited sense, nourishing — bring necessary vitamins, minerals and every to the body and staving off hunger pangs. Certainly I was grateful to have it. It was a better meal than many people in the world would enjoy that night. But it certainly wasn’t satisfying in itself. If it was satisfying at all, it was only because of an *idea*: ‘I’m doing something that’s good for my body by ingesting this…This kind of cooking — cooking that is motivated by an idea, rather than by the wondrous materials of food — is a kind of asceticism, an exaltation of an idea (in this case, healthfulness) over pleasure, and indeed, over the sensory experience of food and eating. This approach to food is, as Robert Farrar Capon wrote, an ‘intellectual fad, imposing a handful of irrelevant philosophical prejudices on a grandly material business.’…But does the same God who calls us to his kingdom with words like ‘Listen carefully to me, and eat what is good, and delight yourselves in rich food’ (Is 55:2) also call us to dietary asceticism, to perfect adherence to regimens of health?” d
Pastor Randy Booth reminds us that the family table is the rehearsal hall of the the Lord’s communion table:
“The Table is the meeting place where we remember who we are and what has been done for us…that we are dependent and that God is our provider…We enter into fellowship with God as He serves us and with one another as we share…Similar things should be taught and received at our daily family tables…The meal is simple, but the lessons are large.” e
Some cheeses coat the palate, yield under the finger. Some have little flavor crystals that burst under tooth. Some challenge the olfaction. They draw the eye and enliven the salivary glands – signaling what is still to come over the remainder of the meal. But be patient. Pace yourself. Man best not try to live by cheese alone. I must say that for some time now, the promise of fried cheese curds is perhaps enough to one day tempt me to travel above the Sweet Tea Line, and visit friends to the bitter north. But perhaps it will take a little more than a fried appetizer. Maybe if it were promised as midpoint in a full course meal – maybe. You see, while some cheeses take time to create and practice to fully appreciate (and are perhaps best left to the experts), I have recently learned how relatively quickly some kinds (such as mozzarella) can be made at home. f. So, maybe later y’all. Till then, increase the feast.
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