It's Good, But Is It Gouda Good?

On Saturday, I made myself some Gouda. Several factors contributed to this sudden madness:

• the Kid Squid, prowling the free samples' orgy that is Wegmans at the weekend, had a few weeks ago sampled some of the Dutch cheese and declared it 'quite tasty.'
• this same Squid recently remarked that he 'rather liked' the way I cook brown rice - brown rice! - and would heretofore withhold his objections to its being served as a side dish. Not only does this mean I no longer have to cook two batches of sushi gohan for dinner (a major inconvenience, since I have but one glass-covered chef's pan suitable for rice cookery), but he was kind enough to assert his position in the presence of company - thus forever cementing my reputation as a good mother who encourages healthy eating in her offspring. I was so gratified by his unexpected display of support that I immediately went out and bought him a gluten-filled slice of mud pie as a reward. I also resolved to make him some Gouda as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
• Gouda differs from all the myriad cheeses I have produced to date. It is a washed-curd wonder (similar to Colby, Edam, and some Cheddars), in which the whey is exchanged for hot water while the curds are stirred and cooked. By reducing the amount of milk sugar in the vat, the bacteria are starved of the fuel they require for acid-production, resulting in a sweet cheese with a very smooth texture.

 A new challenge, hooray! Eager to try out an unfamiliar procedure, I procured two gallons of fresh raw Holstein moo, rolled up my sleeves, and got to work.

Here's how I did it.

1. I did my usual thing with mesophilic cultures and rennet, the satisfying result of which was a maslin pan full of custardy jigglyness well before ten o'clock in the morning. At this point, we discovered that the gale-force winds howling outside the kitchen window meant that Junior Birdman was grounded, releasing me from flying lesson-ferrying duties. Relieved that my cheesemaking would not be interrupted at a critical juncture, I pressed ahead (get it?).

2. I broke up the curds with my biggest wire whisk (the one that's roughly the size of a rolling pin) and gave 'em a good stir. Normally when I am making cheese, I stir and stir (often up to my elbows in the highly corrosive whey) until the correct temperature and acidity have been reached. Not this time! I decanted about a third of the whey from my vat - about nine cups' worth.

3. Over the next fifteen minutes or so, I replaced the whey with an equal volume of water, held at 130 deg F in a spaghetti pan on an adjoining burner. Well, not adjoining exactly. In fact the bowl into which I had previously poured my surplus whey was not adjoining, either. What with all the splashing, sloshing, and general mayhem the floor became a bit sticky, to tell the truth.

4. I stirred my cauldron some more and rejoiced to discover that the diluted curds were far less harsh on my knuckles' ladylike skin than the acidic broth to which I am accustomed. No doubt this is why those women in the KLM commercials always look so dewy.

5. I repeated the whole process about thirty minutes later. Having earlier removed my slippers, which were sticking to the floor, my socks now became sodden as they sloshed through the puddles forming on the vinyl at my feet.

6. I pledged that I would give the kitchen a good mopping at some point in the future.

7. I removed the soft curds (so much more delicate than the desiccated lumps one requires for Cheddar or Swiss) from their jacuzzi and hastily filled my mold. Here I hit my first snag of the day. You know how Gouda is round and plump, whereas so many other cheeses are all sharp edges? Turns out you need a special mold to make the genuine article. I didn't have one, naturally, and made do with the same trusty contrivance I employ for Wensleydale, Swiss, faux-loumi, and Alpine cheeses.

8. I applied the first press after I'd returned the cheese to its bath. This unusual step guarantees - guarantees, I tell you! - a creamy hole-free texture.

9. I applied a weight of approximately two pounds, cleverly achieved (if I may be so immodest) with a water jug. A pint's a pound the world around!

10. Fifteen minutes' of squashage later, I transferred the sodden mass to my more conventional press and applied additional weight:

11. The next morning, I unmolded my cheese and thrilled to its soft texture, snowy white appearance, and mild aroma.

12. Since Gouda is brined before it's waxed (although I'm reliably informed that Dutch Gouda intended for domestic consumption is often left un-waxed and allowed to develop its own protective rind), I whipped up a saturated salt swimming pool and popped my new baby in. Reassured by its buoyancy, I skipped town for the rest of the day, having first left strict instructions for Sir to flip the cheese at the half-way point and then remove it from its tub and tuck it into the cave overnight. This he did with admirable attention, going so far as to text me about my cheese's progress when The Relo had been accomplished.

13. This evening after work I heated up a bowl of wax in the microwave until the molten liquid reached a blistering (I mean that literally) 220 deg F. Second snag: whereas Gouda for export is traditionally bedecked in scarlet (or sometimes yellow) I had only black wax at my disposal. It looked very dramatic against my creation's snowy whiteness:

14. When all was said and done I had - instead of an ample, pleasingly rotund, cheerful ball of ruby red goodness - a sinister onyx obelisk of disquieting doom.

But that's OK. Even though it doesn't look Gouda, I'm pretty sure it will still taste Gouda.