The Great Tree Hunt on Saturday was more than usually fraught. Naturally, getting three people to reach a consensus on anything (especially when they are as opinionated as Sir, the Kid Squid, and myself) is never easy, but we had great difficulty this year in agreeing on a tree that was suitably conical (but not pear-shaped); tall enough to Make A Statement (but not too altitudinous to fit into the back of my stalwart silver Element); sufficiently green (there were a lot of brown needles this year, presumably from the trees' sitting in puddles for months on end during the wettest summer on record); and possessing of copious numbers of little sticky-up branches for displaying small ornaments and the piece de resistance, our gold paper Moravian star.
When we finally did spot a suitable victim, poor Sir spent almost ten minutes on the cold wet ground, hacksawing away like one possessed. The Squid and I would have offered to spell him for a while, but we know (even though he denies it) that deep down he loves the kill. It's traditional.
When we got home Sir looked so cold and downtrodden from his labours that I decided he needed a treat. Earlier in the week he had plaintively texted me that he'd finished the last of the homemade cheese 'that smelled like feet' (in fact, an impish little washed-rind creation made with bacteria linens - the same bugs that give a red bloom to reblochon and Muenster), so I decided to crack open the much-anticipated BCSSP (Blue Cheese in the Style of Stilton, Perhaps). Much anticipated by others, I hasten to add. I dislike blue cheese. Intensely. Always have.
I was dubious about the BCSSP for other reasons, too, mostly to do with the worrying transmogrifications that have bedevilled it since its introduction into my cave oh-so-many weeks ago. First, it started to grow red fuzzy mold. Then it started to give off an odour not unlike our basement after it has been flooded for a week. In something of a panic, I consulted a variety of expert sources only to discover that such disquieting developments were perfectly normal and nothing at all to be concerned about. I was instructed to give it a good scrape with a sharp knife whenever I thought the situation was getting out of hand and await the appearance of 'the smear'. Then I would really know I was getting somewhere!
As promised, my cheese soon became covered in brown goo that looked like and had the texture of extremely smooth yet sticky peanut butter - although the color was more tahini-hued, now that I come to think on it. The odiferousness was truly dreadful. I scraped and fretted for several more weeks, convinced that I had a real disaster on my hands.
Then, miraculously, a period of time went by when the BCSSP developed a fresh, clean aroma (although unmistakably blue, if you know what I mean) and scraping became a far less urgent task. On Saturday, I decided the time was right.
I cut the truckle into halves around its equator and rejoiced to see inside a creamy pale cheese interlaced with gossamer veins of purest azure. I dared to try a smidgeon and was relieved to discover that it wasn't the worst thing I'd ever tasted. Sir carefully carved some into wedges and ate them with a thinly sliced apple, in which manner blue cheese is often enjoyed in his culture. While not crumbly enough to be Stilton, or creamy enough to be Roquefort, it was nonetheless declared an excellent example of the species.
Just like our Christmas tree.
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