cheese is my chocolate

I have a confession to make. I do not like sugar. I was born without a sweet tooth. In many ways this is a fantastic handicap. I never laid around in the grass on humid summer days lamenting the tardiness of the ice cream man. I do not waste my miniscule income on sweets and consequently I do not have to worry about burning off those unnecessary calories (alcohol, is of course, another story). Chocolate and soda do not wreak havoc upon my complexion and my dentist pretty much loves me. 

So why, you may wonder, am I telling you this? All you sugar junkies out there, gritting your filling-ridden teeth together, secretly plotting my demise because I do not share your weakness? Well, having an aversion to sugar is not as sweet as you may think. Valentine's Day is pretty much the worst day of the year. Not because I haven't had my share of sweethearts, but they all tend to express their affections with the standard box of chocolates. I always have to plaster on a smile, pull back the ribbon, and suffer through two to three pieces as to placate them before pawning the gift off onto a friend or roommate. Halloween? Forget about it. I forever won my younger brother's loyalty by sharing my horde with him every October. 

I will never know the hilarity of sitting around with girlfriends digging into pints of ice cream or gorging myself on cookie dough. My birthday parties were about the lamest things ever, because I never wanted cake. My mother was kind enough to make muffins or banana bread. One year, for the sake of my guests, she talked me into a lemon pie, which is about the only pie I can stomach. Try explaining that to your boyfriend's family at Thanksgiving. "No thanks, I don't care for pumpkin pie." It's un-American. They looked at me as though I had said I enjoyed drowning puppies in my free-time!

My lack of sweet tooth is also a bit disconcerting because I love to bake. I single-handedly do all my family's Christmas cookie baking. Whenever I have a dinner party, there is always at least one pie available. I also bake and decorate elaborate cakes for my friends' and roommates' birthdays. If, heaven forbid, you ever find yourself in the hospital, you can be sure I will appear with a basket full of muffins, cookies, and sweet breads. I'm essentially Suzie Housewife. I can't help it! I intend to supplement my fledgling writing career with a bakery. I work in one now. My boss is constantly approaching me with cookies, cakes, and frostings asking me to sample them while she moans in sugary satisfaction. I like to believe I fake it pretty well. I must have been brainwashed at an early age, because death by chocolate cake just tastes like death to me. I do have a secret weakness, however, and a fantastic dealer. The addiction? Cheese. El queso. Kase. Fromage. Delicious!! 

It all started last summer. My roommate Sara, also a cheese-aholic, and I caught wind of the cheese factory in Kalona. One afternoon we climbed into her car, ignoring the threat of an impending storm and headed west/southwest on Highway 6. We drove straight into a black wall of doom; however, the lighting strikes and forceful winds were no deterrent to our acquisition of cheese. By the time we arrived at the factory the sky had opened up and it was torrentially down pouring. Once inside we stood in the red tiled entryway gawking. The front room has windows that remind me of the nursery wing in a hospital. Soaking wet, we gaped like excited parents at the production of fresh, squeaky, cheese curds. Passing into the store section of the establishment we instinctively bypassed the teas, mustard and other goods for sale, stopping with mouths ajar before the cheese case. 

What you need to understand about the cheese case in Kalona is that it looks like any other grocery store deli case. But don't be fooled. There is one tiny, yet exceedingly important difference: little plastic dishes of sample cheese. I stood immobilized with wonder. I was able to choke out, "Cheese is my chocolate..." Sara later laughed at this observation and recounted it to many of our friends and acquaintances, but at the time she dumbly nodded in agreement as we descended upon the cheeses. 

They had every kind of cheese imaginable: sharp, white, and mild cheddar, aged and baby Swiss, muenster; Gouda, Brie, Havarti, Feta, and pepper-jack. There were cheeses infused with habeneros, lemon peel, mustard seed, sage, horseradish, and yes, even chocolate. There were spreadable cheeses and string cheeses, and there behind the counter, were the squeaky cheese curds, sold in half-pound increments. I purchased some aged Gouda, a small piece of the lemon peel cheese, some spreadable port wine, and half a pound of the cheese curds. Sara bought feta, dill-havarti, salami sliced so thin you could read War and Peace through it, and of course, a pound of squeaky cheese curds.

Squeaky cheese curds are about the most amazing thing ever. I wouldn't even say they necessarily have the most delectable flavor, though Sara ardently disagrees. I believe their power is derived from their freshness. The squeakiness is also hilarious. They only squeak while they are fresh and served at room temperature. They give the consumer the aural sensation of gnawing on a very vocal mouse. Sounds gross I know, but I assure you it is one of the simplest joys of life. It also serves to provide a vigorous abdominal workout from the peels of laughter. We have made many subsequent pilgrimages to the Kalona cheese factory since that first venture. We relish in the enjoyment of witnessing newcomers chew on their first squeaky cheese curd. Kalona cheese factory aside, my fridge is constantly stocked with at least three different varieties of cheese. It's a problem. So there you have it. I have no sweet tooth. My name is Katie Gadient and I am a cheese junkie.