Page 8 of Holiday Cheese and Capers
As soon asthe cruisers climbed out from the wagons, they were greeted by a young couple. The man was tall and broad-shouldered with clear skin, rosy cheeks, and an easy smile. The woman beside him had her blonde hair pulled back in a practical bun and wore an apron over sturdy work clothes.
“Welcome, welcome!” the man called out. His English was excellent, with only the faintest trace of an accent. “I am Lukas Sommet, and this is my wife, Anja. We are so honored to host you as one of your stops on the Celestine Line’s cheese tour.”
“The honor is ours,” Bayard said warmly, shaking their hands. “Your reputation precedes you. I’ve heard wonderful things about your recent modernization efforts.”
Anja beamed. “We’ve worked very hard. My grandfather was set in the old ways, you know. He steadfastly refused to make any changes to the way we do things. I understand… what is that saying?” Anja’s accent was a bit thicker than Lukas’s., “Don’t fix what isn’t broke?” She smiled wistfully, obviously thinking of her grandpère. “Still, when he passed and left us the fromagerie,Lukas and I knew we wanted to honor tradition while also embracing what magic and technology could offer.”
“A delicate balance,” Zephyr observed.
“Very delicate,” Lukas agreed. “But worth it. Come, let me show you all what we’ve accomplished.”
The entranceto the fromagerie opened into a modern visitor center—gleaming counters, interactive displays about cheese-making, and a small café area where guests could sample products. But just beyond, through large windows, they could see the heart of the operation: the production room with its massive copper vats and bustling workers.
“First, let me show you our control room,” Lukas said with obvious pride. “This is where we monitor everything, temperature, humidity, bacterial cultures. All magical, all precise.”
He opened a door off the main corridor to reveal a small chamber filled with glowing instruments and interactive wall charts that updated in real-time. Minerva glimpsed rows of numbers, graphs showing temperature curves, and what looked like a map of the extensive cave system beneath the building.
“Quite impressive,” Bayard murmured. “The network of caves looks like it goes on forever.”
“Indeed,” Exandra agreed. She stroked her chin thoughtfully. “So many places to hide.”
Minerva saw her taking mental notes.
“But come away from all this,” Anja said, already moving ahead. “The real magic happens in the production room. This way, everybody!”
The production roomsmelled strongly of warm milk and sharp, clean copper. Three enormous vats dominated the space, each large enough to hold at least a thousand gallons. Workers moved with practiced efficiency, stirring, testing, monitoring.
“Gruyère begins with pure, raw cow’s milk,” Bayard explained to the group, falling naturally into his professorial voice. The group clustered around him, and Minerva noticed how he came alive when teaching. His slight limp was forgotten as his whole being focused on sharing with the group. “The cheesemakers add the two specific bacterial cultures,Lactobacillus helveticusandStreptococcus thermophilus, to get the process started. These aren’t just ingredients. They’re living communities that have been carefully maintained, sometimes for centuries.”
“Like sourdough starter?” someone in the group shouted out.
“Exactly like sourdough starter,” Bayard confirmed. “And just as temperamental. The cultures must be kept at precise temperatures, fed regularly, and protected from contamination.”
Anja stepped forward to personalize the tour. “Our family maintains a culture library in a specialized chamber. My great-grandmother started it in 1923. Every morning, I check on the cultures like I would check on my own children.”
Lukas demonstrated the heating process, the careful monitoring as the milk reached exactly thirty-two degrees Celsius. “The timing is everything,” he said. “Too hot, and you kill the cultures. Too cold, and they won’t activate properly. You must pay attention. Listen to what the cheese is telling you.”
They watched as rennet was added, and the milk began to coagulate into curds. Next the workers cut the curds with specialized harps, and stirred them slowly, methodically.
“How long does it all take?” Wren asked, her camera clicking softly as she documented the process.
“From milk to a shaped wheel, about four hours of active production,” Bayard said. “Then the wheels are pressed, brined, and moved to the aging caves. That’s where time truly does its magic.”
Jasper had been listening intently, occasionally glancing at his notecards but mostly watching Wren. When she moved to get a better angle for a photograph, he quickly stepped forward to hold back a hanging cord that might have been in her way.
“Thank you,” she said, surprised and a bit delighted when his hand lightly brushed her collarbone.
“I just—I noticed you like to frame people in your shots. Not just the equipment. The workers, their hands, their faces.”
She lowered her camera, looking at him with new interest. “You noticed all that?”
“I do some photography, too. For events and food styling. I love capturing the joy in people’s expressions when they taste something amazing, or the pride on a chef’s face when they plate something beautiful.” He flushed. “Sorry, I’m rambling again.”
“No,” Wren said slowly. “That’s extremely insightful. Most people think food photography is just about trying to make the food look good. But it’s really about telling the story of how it reached the table, isn’t it? The people behind it who made that happen, the ingredients, the time and care...”
“Exactly!” His face lit up. “That’s exactly it.”
They smiled at each other, and Minerva felt her heart warming. She couldn’t help herself. She was hoping the two youngsters would hit it off.
