WHY DOES CHEESE FEEL LIKE A CUDDLE? Well, it’s because it just does. It’s because an almost empty fridge containing a small slab of ageing cheddar harbours at least a glimmer of hope – and even if that cheddar has a tiny speck of mould, you can just scrape it off and turn a blind eye (I won’t tell anyone). Find that toasty loaf you’ve got for emergencies in the bottom drawer of the fridge, add a dollop of something runny like brown sauce or some sort of chutney, and there you go: now you have dinner.
Cheese, in all its salty, fatty majesty, could well be the king of comfort foods. We have all at some point found ourselves standing in the light of the chiller cabinet, scooping grated red leicester from the bag, head back, mouth open, pushing those slivers of loveliness down our throats and somehow feeling instantly better. And, in the same vein, after a hard day we have all leaned on that slightly fearsome chunk of apricot-laced wensleydale that we panic-bought before Christmas before promptly forgetting about it – now, doesn’t it taste good on cream crackers with a big cup of tea and EastEnders? Suddenly, your overdue car MOT seems marginally less upsetting.
I’ve thought about the transformative powers of cheese a lot over the years. Cows and farmers and dairy technicians and cheesemakers have perfected it, using techniques older than time to make something intense, pungent and sating that always hits the spot; they’ve done all the hard work, and now it’s just sitting there in my fridge, available to me at any time. How does this magic happen? Why is it so unique to cheese? Why do some vegans – who have managed to dodge all other animal products – go on a lifelong quest to find the most pungent nut-based cheeses? And why do many would-be vegans name cheese as the one thing they cannot let go?
My theory about It’s so unlike everything else we love, so unique both in flavour and in the sticky way it feels in our mouths. The British were never a nation who embraced stinky or slimy things, and we’ve never been ones for fermented nibbles or stuff covered with mildew or fungus. people have even called our food boring. Cheese, however, has always been the exception: a flirtation with the extremities of taste that we somehow took to our hearts. We may never show much passion for fermented bean curd, stinky herring or decaying vegetable stalks, but we will have a lovely, wobbly piece of whiffy brie smeared on oatcakes. Cheese also has staying power; milky, fatty things linger in your mouth. They have a persistent aftertaste. You’ll still know about that piece of brie long after it has slipped down your gullet. It’s still there as you get undressed and head for the toothbrush, and even in your dreams.
