Such was my joie de vivre that, when I returned home from work this afternoon I decided I could face just about anything. Come what may - dismay, disappointment, or even disaster - I was convinced I could handle it with dignity, forbearance, and sangfroid.
It was time to taste my home-made Wensleydale.
Followers of the Camembert Case and my subsequent ego-bruising will understand why I needed to be in the proper mental space when I cut into my next cheese. There was no reason to suspect it had gone wrong, but I was suffering the lack of confidence that comes from being presented with four jaundiced dried-out disks of rubbery blandness.
I requested Sir's presence for moral support. You may recall that the entire project was Sir's idea - so it seemed only fitting that he should be there for the Great Unpeeling. Also, I needed his opinion as to the authenticity of the cheese - I didn''t recall ever having tasted Wensleydale and wasn't sure what the final product was supposed to be like.
Fortified by mugs of Earl Grey, we addressed the cheese. Judging that it was too big to eat in just one go (providing that it was edible, of course) we decided to slice off about a third with the aim of rewaxing the rest to eat after we returned from our summer hols in a few weeks' time.
I grasped my largest chef's knife and did the deed.
We were both surprised and gratified that the knife seemed to cleave the truckle in twain with minimum effort or fuss. We examined the exposed surfaces and were mightily encouraged by their wholesome buttercup hue; porous appearance (just as it should be, according to Sir); and slightly crumbly texture.
We cut the third into two wedges. The cheese held its shape! We carefully peeled the wax off one of the portions. It still held its shape!
With great care we sliced off two thin slivers and tasted them.
And what do you think? The cheese was delicious!
The texture was not rubbery or dry, but delightfully yielding with a hint of fragile breakability. Sir declared it a triumph and claimed that even if he hadn't been forewarned he would have recognized it for the breed it was. We ate some plain, and some with dates, and some with butter, and some with dried figs before reluctantly wrapping the remaining smidgen and placing it in the box a fromages for later. The surplus two-thirds have been returned to the cave, for experimental purposes. We are curious to see what it tastes like after a few more weeks of aging.
In the meantime, I am flush with success.
Dare I say it? Can it be true?
I am a cheesemaker after all.
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