I would like to be a cheesemaker. If I could, I'd have a herd of goats, and make chevre. But I know that the life is pretty darn hard. Wake up at the crack of dawn, make sure your goats don't go off wandering, getting eaten by, um, wolves? or whatever eats goats in these parts, feed them properly (if you want the same kind of flavor as you'd find in France, you may have to get lavendar infused hay or something crazy like that. No basic damo would be good enough.). So chances are slim that I won't be bleating along till my dying day. I'll just eat the final product.
Last night, headed off to the cheese club as guest of good friend Genny, along with J and G. Wines were average to below average, so I just had a rose, one measly glass. For the rest of the evening, I tried a variety of cheeses, including a camembert infused cheddar, a 42 month aged gouda (a favorite), a brie mieux with truffles, the locally made goat's milk feta which was dipped in olive oil, a jelly like (extremely fresh) goat cheese made from Davao, Pyrenees sheep cheese, a rather greenish gorgonzola (it had a pale green cast, and no, the lighting was not the reason for it), a runny stilton, and a quesong puti used for raclette. J monopolized one of the raclette grills and made up a few variations (4 cheese melt and a 6 cheese melt, the latter he nicknamed SS*). We munched on our bread and cheese, laughed at G's antics with the ladies, and people watched. There was one lady in particular who reminded me of why I don't want to consider plastic surgery. I'm sure she thought herself the bees knees, but her face was so pulled upward and forward, likewise her bosom. She reeked of silicone. I soon lost my appetite for grilled cheese.
*Sex Substitute (imho, not quite)