“Reluctantly crouched at the starting line,
engines pumping and thumping in time.
the green light flashes, the flags go up.
churning and burning, they yearn for the cup.”
This is how I feel every Friday mid morning. Friday begins in the small hours for Thomswoon, smaller hours than have been previously seen. Even the sun is still sleeping as my coffee riddled body makes the daring journey across the A5 with TalkSport my only companion, that is probably the loneliest of existences, minds even smaller than the small hours smaller than previously seen. But as I slip into the peaceful calm, represented by the all white attire and drift across the foot dip all is well. 42 happy Leicester cheese standing straight to attention and 120 bídeach, diminuto, minuscules, tiny towers of white acidic curd.
They are yet but a white 220 gram tower. With few gaps representing what can only be an open texture, (or if my meticulous handwashing hasn’t been meticulos enough, the holeyest of forms, coliforms) just waiting for oxygen to breeze though and change its life forever.
Over the course of the day as I dry salt, turn, wash, dry, hasten, these little fellas I am in awe of what previous weeks batchs have turned into.
“Creativity is piercing the mundane to find the marvelous.”
Pictured above is the man whose mouth uttered the written above words. Bill Moyers, American journo and political commentator. And that comment that he tated rattled around my head as I was opening the box with last weeks white towers. Now turning a very slight off green/blue, like when you have been indoors turning cheese for too long and go into the bright sunny day, on your return everything has that green/blue colour tint to it. I was about to pierce this mundane block of curd and it would develop into a buttery, creamy, chocolatey blue cheese. Bloody Marvelous.
So with 120 to get their first and another 120 to get their second piercing is all comes back to Cake again….
“They deftly maneuver and muscle for rank,
fuel burning fast on an empty tank.
reckless and wild, they pour through the turns.
their prowess is potent and secretly stern.
as they speed through the finish, the flags go down.
the fans get up and they get out of town.
the arena is empty except for one man,
still driving and striving as fast as he can.
the sun has gone down and the moon has come up,
and long ago somebody left with the cup.
but he’s driving and striving and hugging the turns.
and thinking of someone for whom he still burns.
HES GOING THE DISTANCE”
As each thrust goes through the curd, you can feel it glide though the openly knit curd. With the youngest even giving out a gentle squeak. You can feel your right arm grow tired, but the left doesn’t have the strong finesse of the right. Piercing the older cheese you can predict which ones are blueing up nicely inside and you try to peer down the diminutive hole you’ve just pierce to see if you can spy and blue, but you just have to wait….
Preferable to this type of blue…
Either way Im going to end up like this….