Mauro, Cheese and Wine: Give Me Some Cheese!

Verona, Italy. . . January 2010. . .
La Casara, a cheese factory, somewhere in the valleys of Soave. I am unfamiliar with the drive. It is beautiful. It is still cold outside.
Perhaps there is vapor when I speak.
It is early morning. Early for a morning after a night at a degustation of Amarone (serata degli Amaroni!), the top twenty producers, and I had to swallow. That equals to about a bottle of Amarone to the dome, Mauro and I. We were passed. Over-passed? Dispatched? Happy. I must say. Only in Italy have I had such an experience of wine tastings followed by cheese tastings, zig-zagging through fields and valleys its actual production emerges from. Much different from zig-zagging the industrial streets of Manhattan. But, shame on me. They should not be compared.

9 a.m. yet who really knew the time. My eyes were still heavy. Our new camera still uncomfortable in my grasp. who wakes up in the morning to spend three hours in a cheese factory?

We were given blue plastic to cover our shoes. I got lost in photo. I forgot Amarone. Who was she anyway, so wicked and selfish, yet generous and fat? We were in love if only for a night. Now morning had come and we could let go, we had to let go. . . there is always a new horizon to consider. . . cheese. Godly creatures? Man-made creatures? One in the same? All I knew was that I was gonna get my hands on some. Give me some cheese!

We talked, we walked, we watched, we witnessed. But all I wanted was some cheese. Give me some cheese. Give it to me creamy or hard, stinky or mild, old or young. Just give me some cheese. But I knew I wouldn't have to beg. I mean that's what we were there for -- Just for cheese -- how beautiful -- to do something purely in the name, in the quest for cheese.

From the lens of the camera I dreamed. I wanted to stick my arms inside that vat of fresh milk too. Infact, I coud have bathed in that pool and I would have enjoyed that pleasure of feeling the milk get thicker and thicker molding around my body. It wasn't too hot, infact I like warm baths, and Amarone, she was full-bodied like that milk fresh from the cow's tit.

10a.m. We were still waiting for the cheese. Were we waiting. I had no clue. I wasn't even trying to listen to the Italian that I could barely understand, especially after that bitch Amarone destroyed me last night. I was conquered. Immersed in the movement of milk, hands, minimal machine contact. Waiting for my cheese.

Finally things started to change. . . and then we started to walk upstairs, downstairs, to storage rooms, dark rooms, wax painting rooms, to cheese and more cheese, around every corner.

Monte Veronese, a local cheese from Verona. A perfect cheese for the Bardolino we would soon be drinking in the cheese room. I could feel the excitement coming, and boy was it coming.

Give me some cheese. Some pasty, shady, funky, powerful cheese.

This is what my pantry should look like. My children could grow up playing hide and seek amongst the labrynth of cheese wheels.

Each piece was gorgeous, handcrafted, and so patient. "Jordana," they whispered to me, "We could be friends, good friends." I was very excited to make such an acquaintance. They were really stoic and regal, dignified and formidable. "Yes," I replied. "We could be great friends without doubt, without question, my friend."

"Yes you. Over there. What's your name? Gialloblu? Wow, what a pretty name. What? You have saffron in your blood, I mean milk? And you come from the line of the blues? . . . Of course I know your family. . .Oh, Mauro will be so happy to meet you!"

We soon returned to watch the cheese makers, who had worked with the company for twenty to thirty years, some incredible duration like that, finish the final touches to the milk that I would have liked to bathe in.

Cheese like clay. I should start my own cheese factory making sculptures out of cheese and displaying them at parties like ice-sculptures.

11 a.m. My partners in crime, discussing our plans to meet Gialloblu, Monte Veronese, Ubriaco, Caciotta, Taleggio, Stracchino, Sopressa di Brenton, and Bardolino in the tasting room in a half an hour. They didn't want me to hear their plans, but the camera reveals everything.

They thought I could be blinded by the flashy bling bling of cheese-making, as if I was so lustful. Mauro knows my weaknesses. But I could smell trouble.

They tried in vain, one more distraction with the woman who paints cheese. I could paint the cheese too. But I was not going to fall into their trap. I was ready for the next step. The tasting room. Give me some cheese. I haven't forgotten about the cheese.

11:30 a.m. We met a woman who said she had heard of Gialloblu and wanted to know if we could give her some. I told her that I had never heard of this man she called Gialloblu and that no, I could not help her.

And seeing that I could be trusted, after proving myself with my the secrecy of Gialloblu, I was finally invited into the tasting room, where my friends awaited me and rejoiced when they saw me enter.

I said hello to each and everyone of my friends, kisses for each and for all. I neglected none. And we gossiped, and scorned the woman who was trying to find out secrets about Gialloblu.

And then I asked them. The whole room became quiet. What was such a secret? Why was everyone trying to protect Gialloblu?

Because he is so delicious, everyone sneered at me like I was a traitor. A spy perhaps. A fake. Full of deceit. "Don't look at me like that," I yelled at them. "Not everyone understands secrets, especially when they are so secretive. I can keep your secret! Just as long as you let me try your secret! Give me some cheese now!" I couldn't take it anymore. After that tramp Amarone -- I coudn't take it anymore.

I needed a refresh. A new start. They suggested Sopressa. I was burning inside. why were they trying to destroy me? What wrong had I done. They started singing folk songs. They knew I didn't understand their tradition. "Give me some cheese!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.