One of the perks of being disemployed is savoring lunch at home. Lunch means an omelet with salad and fresh bread, followed by my own private cheese course. We always finish dinner with a cheese course, so at lunch, I’ll only take a modest sliver… of each one. Usually, we try to limit ourselves to three cheeses in the refrigerator at any time. But as you can see, when a Frenchman marries an American and they spend their winter days cross-country skiing, things escalate quickly. Nous avons beaucoup de fromages!
Let me guide you through this veritable landscape of dairy indulgence:
On the lower far-left, we have the French Ziegenbrie, a Goat Brie. It’s got that classic, processed texture of cow brie, minus the triple-cream heft. Mr. P isn’t a fan of goat cheese, which works perfectly for me—more goat brie for lunch!
Upper far-left sits a raw milk Fontina Val D’Aosta, an Italian classic born in the Alps, similar to French Alpine cheeses like Gruyère and Tomme. It’s a sturdy yet supple choice that sings of green pastures.
Second from the left, top row, is the infamous French Munster. It looks deceptively creamy and inviting, but don’t be fooled. The smell is so intense it could make even the bravest cheese lover pause, and I brace myself whenever the fridge opens and releases its potent musk. Yet, if you muster the courage to taste it, you’re rewarded with a flavor that’s unexpectedly rich and delicious.
Second from the left, bottom row, is Gran Queso, pretending to be Spanish but really hailing from Wisconsin. We bought it on special, and while it’s strong and interesting, it likely won’t earn a repeat appearance in the fridge.
Third from the left, bottom row, is Tomme de Savoie, a French favorite of Mr. P. It’s the sort of mild, enchanting cheese where a keen palate can detect hints of alpine grass upon which the cows grazed upon mountain slopes.
Third from the left, top row, my personal champion: Campo de Montalban. This Spanish delight blends cow, sheep, and goat milk and has been our staple this month, thanks to a well-timed sale.
Far right, we have the iconic French Camembert, like Brie but bolder, with a storied past graced by Napoleon’s own affection. Mr. P shares that fondness, though I abstain from it at lunchtime. Camembert begs for wine, and while midday cheese indulgence is acceptable for the disemployed, wine would be tipping the scale into decadence.
And so, after lunch, I lean back, feeling almost princely in my humble domain. Sure, the future is uncertain, but in this moment—nourished by soft, aged comforts and the simple pleasure of a midday feast—I can’t help but smile.
