I might have been a picky eater in the making for the first several years of my life, but milk and dairy products I always enjoyed with abandon. Living in Yugoslavia, we were on the outskirts of the technological revolution that swept the western world and glorified the cold aisles of the supermarkets. As a result, our food came straight from the farm, unadulterated and unchanged.
Every morning at six o’clock, Milorad the milkman would pour two liters of fresh, unpasteurized, un-homogenized milk into a green pot that Mother set out the previous evening, put the lid back on, hoist his burgundy enameled bucket, and walk over to the next house. Two hours prior, that milk was still in the cow. We would wake up with the smell of sweet milk warming slowly on the stove, just until the fist bubbles appeared. When the mornings greeted us with psychedelic icy drawings in the windows, nothing felt better than holding a cup of frothy milk by both hands, trying to warm your fingers and letting the steam touch your cheeks. On lazy summer mornings we preferred the cool café-latte made from yesterday’s milk.
On Friday mornings, Vinka would tap shyly at the back door, enter, and sit in the chair closest to the door. Mother would make coffee while transferring the cheese and “kajmak” into the containers. We loved Vinka. Her sad blue eyes would always brighten when she saw us. She smelled of fresh milk and grass, and her embrace was comforting, even though our cheeks stayed red from the rough woolen texture of her home-made vest. How many mornings have I climbed down the stairs heading for that bucket on the counter, stuffing a whole piece of her fresh cheese in my mouth, experiencing every bite with my eyes closed, not knowing that every time brought me closer to parting with it. What would I give now for a perfectly rectangular, pristine white piece of Vinka’s cheese, still unsalted, creamy and soft, resting in a milky brine?
Father’s job often took him on weekends to Sjenica, a town that did not have an Ob-Gyn. Always a people’s doctor, he made friends with his patients, and visited them in their villages, often times in a horse-drawn carriage. He liked to sit down with the grizzled Muslim men and drink a cup of strong tea, served by the women dressed in black, demure, respectful, and always smiling. Interested in history, he would trace their last names generations before, listen to their stories, and share a plate of “sudžuk”*, “turšija”**, freshly baked bread, and strong sheep’s milk cheese. Once in a while, he would pull up in our driveway and gather his meager belongings from the car, carrying in his other hand a big white bucket of this strong, full-flavored cheese, made in the same manner for hundreds of years.
I was the only other member of the family that shared Father’s affinity for this cheese. But when he and Mother came back from their European trips and medical conferences, and he unloaded all the cardboard boxes containing cheese, inscribed in old-German or French, nobody kept him company. We ran around holding our noses, begging him to put them somewhere else, lest his stinky bounty spread its foulness onto other food. He sat by himself with a glass of red wine, perusing a magazine, and snacked on his cheeses, ignoring his rube family.
It took me a while to make friends with some of the more robust-flavored European cheeses, especially the ones with blue veins running through them. Rolling plump white grapes in crumbled blue cheese and chopped walnuts for a catering event back in the eighties made me question my adventurous spirit. I tried them and did not like them. At all. I avoided every incarnation of the moldy cheese for years. And then my sister in Germany started talking about this amazing pasta she made featuring Gorgonzola. And College Kritter came back from Florida where she visited her dad, a chef, proclaiming that she loves Blue Cheese.
I am a competitive person. I love my sister, and I adore my oldest daughter. But I could not take the second seat in this event. I had to be in the front row. I started buying moldy cheeses in very small quantities. I would include them in our traditional nightly repast – a cheese platter with crackers and some prosciutto or salami. I would take a tiny nibble, let it hit my palate, and allow it to roll around my mouth before swallowing. The strong, almost bitter flavor grew on me. And I became a convert.
Rare are the days that there is not some kind of moldy cheese in our refrigerator. And every time my sister visits from Germany she brings me numerous cardboard boxes containing European cheeses. My children do not run, do not hide, do not hold their noses. Not because they are well behaved, but because they grew up tasting different cheeses and loving them.
For dinner tonight I made pork tenderloin, stone-ground grits and mushroom ragout. As if this was not enough, I prepared Dorie Greenspan’s Pumpkin-Gorgonzola Flans from her book . A group of several hundred bloggers is making the recipes from the book. For , throughout the month of November we can make any of the four chosen recipes in whatever order suits us.
The little custards were indescribably easy to make, needing only a few ingredients. The flavors of off-sweet pumpkin played against the acidity of Gorgonzola, and the smooth texture of the flan counterbalanced a lovely crunch of toasted walnuts. When I declared that I wanted more Gorgonzola, I was struck by an image of Father, chuckling and polishing off a whole container of some wonderful cheese that my unsophisticated palate did not know how to appreciate at the time. He got the best of me and for that I had to smile and toast the man with a mouthful of moldy cheese and a glass of red.
*beef sausage, made mostly in Muslim areas of former Yugoslavia
**pickled vegetables, usually peppers, hot and mild
Aww, ur ramekins are so cute !!
I am so looking forward to bake this too @ffwd!
What a lovely story! I still don’t like moldy cheeses but am going to keep trying them in hopes of developing a taste for them. Your flans are beautiful and look delicious!
I loved your story! Unlike the Candy noted above, I love smelly cheese (and as noted, particularly with a nice glass of red wine). Thanks for sharing your wonderful memories.
what a beautiful story, and well-told too. i came to love the strong cheeses later in life myself, and i am glad i did!
What a fantastic post! I hope that when I make the flans I am inspired to write so well!
Trevor Sis. Boom.
Yours look beautiful- I love your little red ramekins! (And I love “stinky cheese!”) Wonderful story!
@Summer, thanks! I had to send the husband out to buy me some ramekins, because I did not think I would have enough! He knows me well – red is my favorite color.
@Candy, give cheese the chance (just could not help it:) The flans were truly tasty and so easy to make.
@Candy, thanks for kind words:) Glad to have a partner in crime who loves moldy cheeses (I am yet to get on intimate terms with limburgers, thogh).
@evilcakelady, I follow the credo that it’s never too late for anything, especially good food. Thanks for liking my story:)
@Trevor, judging by your eloquence, I do not doubt that you will shine:) And make me laugh.
@Betty, thanks – I cannot take the credit for the ramekins; my husband bought them for this particular dish. But I take all the credit for the story, and i am so happy you liked it:)
Your dish turned out gorgeous! I’m so jealous! And, I love your red ramekins. Great post!
Very nice post. I felt like I was sitting there watching it all happen.
Love the ramekins!
I loved your story about growing up. What a unique childhood. I too love all differant types of cheese. The stinkier the better! I enjoyed your post It made me think of all the wonderful memories we associate with our foods…Friends, family,and all the differant seasons in our lives. P.S. your flans look amazing. It is getting cool up here but we just had a burst of 80 degree weather.. Go figure.. B
What a great story and such an interesting childhood. I also love all differant types of cheese. The stinkier the better!! Your post just reminds me of how food evokes memories of so many things…friends, family, all the differant seasons in our lives. P.S. The flan looks amazing. Yes, you should try the flan from Lyon. It is so pretty to serve and really easy. One of those wow factors. It is getting cooler up here but we did just have a blast of 80 degree weather..Go figure..but yes all the leaves are changing. Thanks for the post I really enjoyed it.. B
What a beautiful story! I was transported to a time and place I’ve never been, and somehow felt a little homesick for it.
Your flans are beautiful. And your description of the textures and flavors makes me hungry.
Well, I came to visit because Phyl said I must, and I try to listen to Phyl as he usually comes up with some great stuff. Very nice post…and your little ramekins of goodness look perfectly presented. I was questioning the sanity of combining these two ingredients, Gorgonzola and pumpkin…really??? I now think I must venture forth just to see for myself. I will return, Phyl was right, lots of goodness over here.
@yummychunklet, I was really happy how the little flans turned out. I thought yours were nice-looking, too. Your nick touched me – my husband calls his daughter from previous marriage “chunklet”. So endearing:)
@Cher, thanks:) It makes me really happy to be able to entertain:) I cannot tell the husband everybody loved the ramekins – it will surely go to his head!
@Beth, yes, nothing can bring back memories as fast as food. I am trying to relive my childhood spent in Serbia, to try to keep some of those memories alive, for my children. Leaves turning? Not here in SoCal. I miss the Fall. Sometimes:)
@Phyl, thanks so much! I loved this dish in all its simplicity. I am looking forward to enjpying your blog from the archives:)
@Kayte, thanks for visiting. And thanks, Phyl, for putting up a huge street sign to my blog:) The combination of the flavors was a little unusual, and I did not know what to expect. But it turned out great!
Your flans truned out really well. It took me a long time to love blue cheeses, but I am now a resolute fan.
It took me a long time, too. But so worth it! I cannot imagine a Fall without some incarnation of moldy cheese:)
What a very wonderful story. I am so happy to have found your blog. There are tears in my eyes. Thank you for sharing your family and childhood with us.
[...] This post was Twitted by momfood [...]
[...] This post was mentioned on Twitter by Serene, Svetlana Watkins. Svetlana Watkins said: My new post on smelly cheeses and @doriegreenspan's pumpkin-gorgonzola flan for #FFwD [...]
Da, zaista ukusi se menjaju tokom vremena i tako i treba da ostane. Eto moj suprug je pre par godina tvrdio da mu je nepodnošljiv miris koji se širi po stanu od sveže kelerabe koju ja volim da grickam kao zec(5 godina je potom nisam kupovala), a juče dala sam mu da proba i on mene pita šta je to. Jednostavno čulo mirisa mu se promenilo, a ja abstiniram od kelerabe. Uvek sam volela smrdljive sireve i sećam se mog brata kada je imao oko 4 godine kako za stolom gricka Roquefort i kaže “Smrdi na noge, a tera me da ga jedem!”
What great stories of growing up! and the flans look like perfection.
I recently discovered beef bacon and cannot wait to find beef sausage. Also, it’s good to know you weren’t a fan of pungent cheeses right off the bat. I’m not a fan at all but it’s good to know I may be able to appreciate them one day
@Serene, thank you for reading. It makes me so happy when I can take someone on a trip across space-time lines and let them peek into somebody else’s (mine:) life, even just for a moment.
@Jelena, ja koristim decu kao zamorčiće i mogu da potvrdim da je teorija o menjanju ukusa tačna. Nikad ne treba odustati, ako nam se nešto na prvi zalogaj ne svidi. I ja sam dokaz za to, jer sam malo po malo zavolela puno nepoznatih jela koja su mi bila nepodnošljiva kad sam se preselila u SAD.
A kelerabu, eto, nikad nisam probala! Jesen je, ima je svuda, i nameravam se upoznam sa gospodjom:)
@Spike, thanks for visiting! And flans are here to stay, forever, in all their perfection:)
@Azmina, do not give up! I detested cilantro for years so much that I could not eat anything that it touched. But I decided to learn how to like it. Millions of people around the world could not be wrong, right? Why deprive myself of a potentially wonderful experience? And my will prevailed:) Now I am battling fennel:) I really want to like it. One day…