My 2024 started around noon on New Year’s Eve, when I returned from my neighborhood bagel shop to learn that my husband had tested positive for covid. Neither of us had ever caught it until then, because we are (still) extremely diligent about masking indoors and using other precautions basically any time we’re not at home. That includes his work as a DJ and karaoke host. N95s, nasal sprays, and lugging his own HEPA air filter to each gig kept him protected for an entire year, until they didn’t.
Because this has pretty much been my worst nightmare for the past—Jesus Christ—4 years now, and I am hypervigilant about all things pandemic-related, I had a plan. I threw some clothes and bedside table stuff in a bag and hurried down the hall to our spare room, where I’d sleep for the next 3 weeks while he isolated in our bedroom—that’s how long it took for Alex to consistently test negative.
We used separate bathrooms and masked in shared spaces. I worked downstairs in our dining room. Friends delivered medicines and Gatorade until I had been isolating and testing negative for long enough to feel comfortable going out. I spent my evenings on our sleeper sofa watching The Gilded Age, soaking in its high production values and low-stakes drama until my brain was as smooth as the sumptuous Victorian-era gowns on my laptop screen.
I never got infected, but maintaining this level of vigilance felt harrowing and exhausting as I juggled work deadlines, did all the household chores, prepared and delivered each of my husband’s meals on a tray outside the bedroom door, and cared for both of our cats (who also live in separate parts of the house—a story for another day).
Then February was all about work and busyness. Too many deadlines, not enough time, and not one or two but three classes I’d signed myself up for late last year in hopes of keeping the winter SADs at bay by getting out of the house and learning things—ceramics, sewing, podcasting. I did manage to finish a fiction book for the first time in months: first the devastating Play It As It Lays and then The Remains of the Day, devastating in a more understated but no less heartbreaking way.
Now it is March, and the days are longer, and I feel like I am actually catching up to myself and the intentions I set in the dark of December. Shitty start to my year aside, pledging promises for the year ahead at the absolute nadir of warmth and light in the annual cycle feels like a delusion, like asking for failure. Why do we attempt to draw will and motivation from an empty reservoir? No one should be expected to put effort towards anything new or foundational until the sap is flowing, the sun shines after 5 p.m., and spring bulbs have pushed up their first green shoots.
2024 is already cursed for so many reasons—a low point for our country, our species, unlikely to be followed by the relief of an early spring like this one. But on my individual micro-level, it feels possible to look ahead rather than struggle just to stay in place for the first time in a long time.
In that sunny, south-facing spare room, my monstera and bird of paradise are unfurling new leaves. Trays of tomato and pepper and leek seedlings have forced themselves up out of the soil in search of light. Out front, my blueberry plants hold tiny buds containing juicy handfuls of summer’s fruit. The bulbs I planted in the heavy, lead-contaminated soil of my postage-stamp front yard in November have emerged. Here are the first crocuses.
There is much to do and prepare for, in my life and in the world, and that thought for the first time in a while feels motivating rather than overwhelming. My new year, I’ve decided, started March 1. Call it the Alexandrian calendar.
This newsletter, you may have noticed, has not been about cheese. I needed to clear the cobwebs and write my state of mind before proceeding with business as usual. But here are a few cheese-adjacent things coming up that I’m excited about, and you’ll be hearing more about these in what will hopefully be more regular dispatches soon.
Teaching classes. I have a slate of in-person cheese classes at the incredible Philly Cheese School, one per month from March through June. There are still a few tickets left to this Thursday’s History of Cheese in North America class, which begins with colonization and ends with the recent American artisan cheese renaissance. On April 25, I’m bringing back my popular History of the World in 5 Cheeses. A new offering is Botanical Cheeses on May 2, with a tasting of incredible cheeses produced with or containing leaves, flowers, stems, seeds, and more. On June 13, I go back to my local food roots with a Cheeses of PA class featuring just some of the most exciting, unique, and award-winning wheels and wedges the Keystone State has to offer. Grab tickets here—and if you’re not local but interested in a virtual version of any of these, let me know!
Finishing my Daphne Zepos Research Award research. Amid covid drama and client work, I have barely touched my cheese and climate project since I returned from Puerto Rico in mid-December. I have a ton of audio and images to process from the trip, as well as remote interviews I conducted last fall. For the next four months, I’ll do some final outreach, fill in gaps, and put my ACS presentation together. I have a lot of anxiety about presenting my research and perspective at the conference. Some cheese professionals are interested in facing this challenge head-on, but others seem to be focused primarily on deflecting blame from the industry, checking a sustainability box, protecting market share.
As I said on this week’s episode of Cutting the Curd—in a convo with DZTE folks, including host and board member Joe Salonia—I always leave my conversations with the Application & Recipient Support committee feeling inspired and energized, even if I went into them feeling unprepared or insecure or like an imposter. The pep talk they gave me about the importance of this work and of refusing to shy away from uncomfortable truths was exactly what I needed to attack the next four months. “Crack the superficial” is highlighted in my notes, and I’m excited to do just that. By the way, DZTA and DZRA applications are open now, if you’ve a cheese-related idea you want to dig into.
Cheese travel. Some health stuff, general burnout, and coming to terms with the fact that it probably wasn’t workable to spend weeks sleeping in the back of my Subaru at my big age made me curtail my original Southwest research trip. Instead, I’m excited that I’ll be directing my grant funds to attend the Northeast Dairy Summit in Albany in April.
But July is the big trip: I’ll be roaming the French Alps visiting Comté producers, learning about how the makers and marketers of one of the world’s most highly regarded cheeses are thinking about, adapting to, and preparing for climate change. After the tour, I have a few days to myself before flying out of Geneva, so I welcome recs for chill activities and places to stay in that general area. I’ll be flying from Switzerland to Buffalo via Toronto for ACS, where I’ll present my DZRA findings, so I’m hoping to build in a little downtime.
So! That’s what’s going on with me. More political cheese newsletters, as one fan called them, are coming, I hope, more regularly in the near future.
Recent Work
What’s the Difference Between American and Italian Parmesan?
I put a lot of time and effort into this parm v. parm explainer for Epicurious late last year. It was published in January, but—fun fact—publications often don’t tell you when your work goes live, so I just realized it’s out there. Thanks to monger Tommy Amorim, recipe developer and pizza sorceress Peggy Paul Casella, and the folks from the Parmigiano Reggiano Consortium, BelGioioso, and Schuman Cheese who shared their insights!
Recent Cheese
This spread Alex and I enjoyed on Valentine’s Day is proof that even a very half-assedly thrown together board can look pretty great. The many, many quality cheeses (and a few of the accompaniments) came from Murray’s Cheese boot camp, a two-day virtual training for consumers and cheese pros. My favorite part was listening to affineur Josh Windsor talk about cheesemaking and aging for 4 hours straight.
These are two of the first-ever batches of Treeline, originally a collaboration between Roelli Cheese Haus and the erstwhile Crown Finish Caves, that Josh and Murray’s have worked with master cheesemaker Chris Roelli to revive. Wheels are washed in the Korean rice wine makgeolli, creating a profile with an uncommon sweetness that bridges meaty, hammy vibes and floral jasmine notes.
The wedge on the left is two months—with a grounding hint of bitter histamine and darker color due to feed variations—while the one on the right is four months, with a mellower, more unified flavor profile. Both melt luxuriously over just about anything. The pic is from a virtual tasting with Josh and Chris, part of Cheese State University’s Study Hall series. If you’re a monger or other cheese professional and you’re not already hanging out and learning in the community with us, what are you waiting for?
While I’m in Australia not USA, I enjoyed the piece on Parmigiano Reggiano vs parmesan as a great general explainer and shared it on socials. With cost of living foremost in mind for many people, it’s useful to know when to splurge and when not to bother. Cheers
Cheese State University is so much fun, I’ve learned so much, and love this cheesey community!