Cheese Profile: Cotswold

-The underappreciated Cotswold. Also, I love this picture. It looks so 1970.-

Cotswold gets the shaft a lot of the time. It's the red-headed stepchild of the cheese world, acknowledged but only begrudgingly so. And that kinda pisses me off.

None of the great cheese books out there will ever list Cotswold off as a cheese you have to try, or would even deign to group it with other, often considered more remarkable cheeses like Seastack or Vacherin. To do so would be to many a cheese-snob a travesty.

Still, this popular cheese is well known and quite renowned. Practically every child, foodie, and housewife has tried this cheese at one time or another. Perhaps at a potluck or some party or work function. Indeed, my first taste was at an art gallery opening where I instantly fell in love and nearly demolished the entire Cotswold spread in under a minute. Only public decorum and the total embarrassment I suffered when a friend told me to "Slow the fuck down on the cheese," loud enough so that people stared at me did I actually stop.

And, I think, that's why it has developed such a low sense of value in the food world. It's too well known. There's no mystery. It hasn't been banned from import or export. There's no great legend or history behind it (it is, however, a very old English cheese from Gloucestershire County). It's been served in English pubs for as long as anyone can remember. It's tried and true with nothing surprising about it.

The food world needs to come back to this cheese with fresh eyes. Really experience it one on one. Not on a plate next to the cold cuts and celery sticks. Go out, buy some - you can find it at any store - and put it on a plate. Bring it to room temperature and sit in a quite corner where you and Cotswold can have a heart to heart.

-Chives make cheese better.-

The look is somewhat debonair, proper in its well color coordinated body. Inviting, rustic, and simple. Notice its aroma, it smells green and fresh like childhood games played in the yard. It isn't like one expects cheese to be, especially one flavored with chives, pungent and harsh. Rather, Cotswold is sort of welcoming and invites you to have a good, light beer as you eat it.

The texture, similar to a young Cheddar, it quite creamy even for a semi-firm cheese. After a moment or two in your mouth it begins to break down to your body temperature and melt apart. Grassy, smooth, garlicky and green due to the chives it possesses a very twee brightness; but it's that innocent flavor that belies a more prurient quality. It instills a dairy-lust where you'll go back to the fridge to snack again and again on this delightful cheese that you had before cast aside.

I've been reacquainting myself with Cotswold (I even love the name! Cotswold; so refined!) in cooking. Layered in a grilled cheese with garlic rubbed rye or sourdough and layered with a bit of fresh basil. Melted with a bit of leftover skirt steak into a sandwich. Freshly grated over mashed turnips. Its herbaceous and soft qualities make it perfect for pub and cafe food.

Mistaken Prostitution

Re-wrote this old restaurant review I originally posted back in 2006. The restaurant, 55 Degrees, closed about two years ago. The meal was forgettable, but what happened beforehand was anything but. ~Garrett

I had postponed getting together with my friend Kim and her hubby twice at this point for various reasons, so this time I was determined to not miss this dinner date. Unfortunately, I had come down with a bit of a cold, so after almost a bottle of cold medicine and a heroic amount of multivitamins I sluggishly tromped my way out to downtown. Luckily, even though I was sick, my taste buds had not been affected, so eating out was still an option. Kinda.

We had decided to meet up at 55 Degrees, one of the more contemporary restaurants that could be found on Capitol Street. Its steel and glass aquarium design created a chic, elite, sterile feel where politicos of every stripe came to dine and impress their guests. In a sea of suits and Prada loafers we were sorely out of place, but we heard the food was good and decided to wade through the business formal in a business casual manner.

Now, funny story on the side - I arrived about 20 minutes early so I paced around outside Capitol Street taking in the tall, abandoned scenery. It seemed I was the only person on the street which was both awesome and creepy in an Apocalyptic/Freddy Kruger movie sort of way.

After a while having exhausted any bits of garden or sculpture to examine I leaned back on a dimly lit lamppost and checked my test messages. "10 more minutes. - Kim." It seemed they would be late. I looked up to find my line of sight locked with an idling car a few meters away. The car then drove up, rolled down the window and a doughy, middle aged man poked his head down to look at me to, I assume, ask direction. This would be his loss as I was still relatively new to exploring Sacramento having rarely left the town of Davis. He looked at me, "How much?"

At this point my face contorted into I can only imagine what (probably something of a placid, white hot rage) as I stated in a dead tone, "I... am not a hooker!" His face went pale. He looked away and in an instant the car screeched off with a trail of smoke from his tires burning out trailing behind.

Great. This was worse than the time my I couldn't flag my mom down at the airport to take me home because I was wearing my dingy, old hunting coat. She thought I was a crazy homeless person. (Thanks, mom. And, yes, I still wear the coat.)

Stunned. I turned around and saw Kim and her husband and I ran up to them. "Hi! Sorry we're la-"

"Do I look like a hooker!?" I screamed in a slightly frantic manner.

"...What?!"

I explained. Kim conferred that I did not look like a prostitute and we attributed the pervert's mistake was due to my pacing Capitol Street, leaning on the lamppost, and my hunting coat which, yes, I was wearing. Maybe it was the blush that my slight fever gave, possibly street light gave my sickly paleness an alluring street-walker look? She thought the whole damn thing was hilarious, and in retrospect, it is.

Either way, lesson learned: no more walking the street in dingy coats. That, or, ask how much first.

Some Thoughts While Making a Cake

-Inspiration for deep and shallow thought. This post is mostly the latter.-

I made myself a little birthday cake this weekend as I turned 27. I figured, why not? It wasn't that I was desiring cake, needed to make a wish for some yearning desire, or was to have a huge shindig to share it with others. The impetus just suddenly struck me, like a hand reached into my brain found the bakery string, and plucked it.

"I'm going to make a cake." So I did. It was cake for the sake of cake. Cake doesn't have to have a reason to exist and it does not question itself. Cake just is.

Still, I do have some thoughts and musing to share that occurred to me in the making of this cake. But that's all they are. Thoughts and musings.

To begin with, fuck Williams-Sonoma. Seriously, you guys. What the hell?

On a similar note, hooray for restaurant supply stores who sell the exact same brand of cake pans as Williams-Sonoma for $6.95 as opposed to $30.00. Honestly, I was so flabbergasted I actually used the word, and I'm not a fan of it. (It sounds silly, like serendipity, another word that should be aborted out of the English language.)

I am amazed at the total cost difference from wholesale supply stores sometimes. Honestly, it's shocking that every time I go to a high end store how people are willing to put down enough money to buy the same item at a fraction of the price elsewhere. But, then again, I suppose if you have thirty smackers for a cake pan then saving that thirty smackers isn't probably a concern for you. Then, by all means, spend as you will. I know I have a few fiscal habits I can't rightly justify except for the fact of "because," "I want to," and "shut up."

Now, as for the cake itself I used Dorie Greenspan's cocoa buttermilk birthday cake recipe. It's a good recipe. Reliable. Efficient. Easy. I didn't add the melted chocolate, an optional step, and I wish I had so that the resulting cake would have had a deeper chocolate flavor. Ah well, I was aiming for speed in the kitchen that Saturday morning. Still, it's a recipe I would use again.

Frosting-wise I used the leftover Swiss Buttercream I burned myself making in the Advanced pastry class in May. That stuff lasts forever. It's also richer than the wealthiest sheiks in the Middle East. Seriously, a spoonful of that stuff could give a racehorse a heart attack. Any time I have a slice of this cake five minutes later I become spontaneously diabetic with the desire to eat nothing but light salads for the rest of my life. Oh, but the taste. It tastes so frickin' good.

And yes, 27. In the movie Logan's Run your Lastday is age 21. That's six years a runner. I had the first actual fear of 30 the other day. I used to mock people of that fear saying that you should just get over it and deal with it. Now I get it. The time is going by too quickly. Crap. I still have yet to ever buy a lotto ticket, see the Northern lights, or go sky diving.

Better get on those lists people. Time is going by.

-I also muse about pie but it usually involves peyote and reruns of Xena.-

Green Thumb. Heavy Hand.

-These are all of my golden raspberries. Hopeful and kind of sad all at once.-

The garden is slowly coming along and showing signs of life and success. Somehow BF, Roommate, and I have successfully grown things. I have, with help, broken the black thumb curse that has hung around me like some dark, anti-Gaia fog.

The strawberries are obese with juice and the flavor is so rich it could buy a yacht (or more strawberries?). The Early Girl tomatoes are beginning to grow with vigor and rush. Paper lanterns adorn my tomatillo plants like some sort of Chinese New Year in green, celebrating the arrival of Spring. The sugar peas, though planted late, were abundant and plenty making for many tasty snacks and stir-fries. Now that they're done we've turned the vines into salads.

-Corn. And as you can see both the boy and girl parts are growing nicely. This means much corn for Garrett (and maybe BF and Roommate).-

Oh, yes, my golden raspberries are coming along as well as a first year berry plant can (three whole berries!). Yet, they are nothing compared to my blackberries and mint (chocolate and spearmint) who are quickly taking over their sectioned corner of the garden. I did plant them in the ground and expected as much. Why, you may ask, would I plant so many invasive plants? One word: rental. I only plan to be here a few years and then it's not my problem. (My god, I'm a green thumb apartment terrorist. And an ass. But, the way I see it, someone will be lucky to move into my apartment and find plenty of berries and mint for berry mojitos.)

-I love the festive look of tomatillos.-

The many basil plants, chili peppers, parsleys, and other herbs are prolific. The dwarf citrus are fine and dandy (though something is up with that yuzu and its curly leaves). Yes, success abounds here. I am garden man, hear me plant my corn!

However, part of bringing about life is bringing about death. In fact, the bounty of gardening seems to stem from death. Do you know how many aphids - red, black, and green - I have squished with my hands? My fingertips are stained red every morning with the blood of my enemies. The insectoid invading forces are backed up with colonies of ants who seem to be smart enough to avoid my poison traps and, I swear, I heard one of them say something homophobic.

Yes, I did buy a bunch of ladybugs. Yes, I released them out at night. And yes, after five days they all flew away leaving behind all the aphids. I bought their freedom from the gardening store and they ran. I wanted indentured servitude, damn it. I am not the underground railroad for entrapped ladybugs.

-Swollen strawberries.-

The snails and slugs are a whole other thing. I tried every organic method I could think of. I set out copper traps, eggshells, even little trays of beer which peeved me off because it felt like I was buying the damn slimeballs a drink. At one point I was even going out at night with a flashlight, picking them up, placing them on a flat rock and crushing them with a hand trowel in a sacrificial manner offering their tiny icky bodies to the gods of gardening.

Life and death here in this humble apartment garden. It's a balance. Green thumb with a heavy hand.

-Soon to be blackberries. This breed is apartment perfect. It only grows vertical, not outwards, has no thorns, and is immune to insects.-

Cheese N' Beer

-Clockwise from the top: Demon du Midi, Gres de Vosges, Maytag Blue, Fromage de Meaux, Lamb Chopper, Carmody.-

Normally, I'm not a beer person. That's not to say I hate beer, I'll throw a few back at a barbeque and certainly won't turn one down when offered, which, as I am to understand, is a sin. I even have a few favorite beers such as Blue Moon with a slice of orange, and Siamese Twin (a delicious beer with kaffir lime and lemongrass, only to be found in California) is a beer I hold dear to my heart, stomach, and liver. However, if you were to invite me to a beer tasting I would have to politely turn you down. It's just not my thing. Wine tasting, chocolate tasting, yes - but not beer.

Throw cheese into the mix and, well, how can I say no? When I heard about the cheese and beer pairing class to be taught by the Taylor's Market cheesemonger, Felicia Johnson, I immediately signed up. I was familiar with the epic duo of pairing cheese with wine and even cheese with chocolate, but cheese and beer, though known, was unfamiliar to me. It was a realm of dairy I had apparently overlooked like so much Budweiser and block cheddar.

-Beer, glorious beer.-

I arrived to find a stylish plate adorned with six cheeses and three glasses of beer, each competing for affection through their body and funk. We would be tasting 18 different pairings, some which would be striking, others revolting. The reason: to learn not just from the positive experiences, but the negatives. An odd though sensible approach to tasting as human beings, being the obstinate beings we are, tend to hold onto our more unpleasant experiences with a miserly grip.

The tasting was instructive and enlightening. The Fromage de Meaux - the closest to a real Brie we'll ever get in the U.S. due to pasteurization laws - matched perfectly with the Scrimshaw Pilsner. The faux-Brie's single cream, mushroomy richness danced well with the light beer. The Pilsner, being light in flavor like a Champagne (a classic cheese pairing for Brie and other rich, mellow cheeses) thus also enjoyed the presence of the Lamb Chopper, buttery Carmody, and oozy Demon du Midi.

The Dogfish Head 90min IPA, a beer with great malt backbone that can stand up to an extreme hopping rate, was made more for the rank and stinky cheeses. When it eclipsed the soft in flavor Brie and sheep's milk cheeses it was able to share my mouth with the Demon, but came to a calming armistice with the meaty, smells-like-feet Gres de Vosges (think of a mild Epoisses).

-Maytag Blue is made like a classic Roquefort, but to me tastes a little... off. I'm in the minority though.-

The Maytag Blue, the oldest American blue and one I'm not keen on to begin with, matched well with the Sierra Nevada 30th Anniversary Stout (a beer made by Fritz Maytag no less). I say this from an indifferent point of view though. They did match well, but combining a cheese I don't care for with a espresso-esque beer I don't care for wasn't exactly a match made in heaven for me. But then again, taste is subjective as my tasting partner seemed to enjoy it.

The tasting was educational in introducing me to new cheeses and how to pair them with beers. It also enforced the main rule in learning about food. Use your senses. You can read about food all you want, but unless you're out there touching, smelling, seeing, and tasting food; the good and the bad; then you'll never really learn or know food. This golden rule of foodism couldn't be more true for cheese.

-How awesome of a name is Lamb Chopper? Seriously, it sounds like a serial killer or the codename for a secret military jet.-