Page 62 of Holiday Cheese and Capers
The monk bowed his head modestly.
“To all of you,” Bayard said as he raised his glass, “thank you for being part of this journey.”
“To the cheesemakers!” everyone in the room chorused heartily, cups clinking and champagne overflowing as they took their first of many toasts.
SEASON’S EATINGS
As the first course was served—the Gruyère fondue that had started their journey—the cheesemakers’ table came alive with animated discussion.
Lukas demonstrated a dunking technique to Margot, who nodded thoughtfully. Raoul and Geraldo entertained Claire with stories about a recent group of nudists that took over their wellness resort. Their voices rose and fell in musical harmony as they recounted their surprise when they walked into the breakfast hall.
But the most animated discussion was the one happening between Philippe Valmont and Blythe Meadowsweet.
“Your methods are completely unorthodox,” Philippe said, his voice carrying across the room. “Tie-dyed cloth? Dreamcatchers in the barn? This is not serious cheesemaking!” He tutted and shook his head.
“And your methods are completely stuffy!” Blythe shot back. “All your rules and regulations and golden needles and precious worthiness lists. Where’s the joy? Where’s the creativity?”
“Cheesemaking is not about joy, it is aboutprecision!”
“Everything is about joy!”
The entire atrium had gone quiet, everyone watching the argument unfold like dinner theater.
“Your Roquefort is probably bitter and unimaginative,” Blythe declared.
“Your cheddar is probably chaotic and unrefined,” Philippe countered.
“How dare you!” Blythe grabbed a cube of her rainbow cheddar and thrust it at him. “I dare you to say that to me again once you’ve had a taste of this particular nirvana!”
Philippe, affronted, grabbed a piece of his precious Yule Roquefort. “You taste mine first!”
“I accept your challenge.” Blythe nodded. “On the count of three. One…Two…Three!”
They both took a bite of the other’s cheese from each other’s outstretched hands.
Silence.
Philippe’s eyes flew open wide. “This is... the flavors are surprisingly complex. The texture is… How on earth did you achieve this crystalline structure?”
“Your Roquefort.” Blythe closed her eyes and breathed in deeply through her nose. “Oh, my goddesses! It’s magnificent. Those honey notes! They sing! How did you?—?”
They stared transfixed at each other.
“What if,” Philippe said slowly, “we combined our techniques? Your creative wrapping methods with my traditional aging process?”
“What if,” Blythe added, “we created a collaborative cheese? Something that honored both tradition and innovation?”
“It would be revolutionary.”
“It would be beautiful.”
“We would have to work together. Extensively. Perhaps I should visit Cornwall?—”
“Or I should come to France?—”
They were standing very close now, both talking faster, their hands gesturing wildly.
“Your passion for cheese—it’s intoxicating,” Philippe admitted.
