The Metaphysics of Cheese

I have no idea if this is the place for this rant, but here goes.

Having gone for a run in lovely 24C weather, and feeling like I had thus earned a glass of grape "cordial" along with some cheese, I took out the last bit of St Albans and warmed it up in the microwave so it would be a bit easier for my ryvita crackers to deal with. What struck me was the stunning aroma, that thrice dead gym sock odour that accompanies all decently aged cheeses warmed to perfection. Instantly I was reminded of a rather embarrassing episode which occurred in my second year of college. Having met a young woman with whom I was very interested in sharing life altering experiences, I took her out to a very cheap dinner and then back to my college room for some wine and cheese and late night chat.

It was a winter night. My dorm room was cold, so I had earlier thought to turn on the ancient radiator in my room so as to make things more comfortable. What I had forgotten was that two pair of recently worn running socks were drying on that same radiator. When we entered the room, it was not only as balmy as a Saudi June afternoon, it also smelled as if I were a serious manufacturer of cheesy comestibles, mostly of the blue, roquefort, or seriously aged havarti type. She turned to me and said her favourite cheese was gouda.

My heart fell.

Gouda! Isn't that the sort of cheese that people who don't acutally like cheese eat? Or if not that, then extra mild chedder? The cheese that isn't cheese. The cheese that those same people who used to eat Elmer's glue in grade school preferred. The sort of people whose favourite sandwich is breast of turkey with mayonnaise on white bread, and a glass of milk. Now, don't get me wrong. I enjoy breast of turkey and I even at times enjoy mayonnaise, but enjoying gouda may well be proof that the devil exists (Wal-mart and television notwithstanding)

Being a non-believer, it somewhat grieves me to say that we've been blessed with noses and a clear sense of smell, and to not put that to good use is to some extent a crime against existence itself. In support of Darwin, god bless him, our noses have evolved to what we have now because wisdom teaches us that the ability to smell powerful things is a form of higher development. This philosophy leads quite naturally to the conclusion that Gouda is the instrument of the devil and that the finest stinky cheeses may in fact be an argument for monotheism, or some sort of theim.

If there is a god, then she gave us noses so they may be well used; they are not meant to be insulted by things like non-aromic cheeses which lend themselves more to reminders of wall paper paste than to things worth experiencing more fully: smelly cheeses, for instance. Life, god or no god, is meant to be experienced, else why do we have the senses we do? But I begin to foam and rave, curdle, as it were.

Suffice to say, the aforementioned young woman and I went nowhere, much to my delayed delight. She probably found some Wonder Bread eating lover of mild cheddar while I have gone on to the joys of curried rice, garlic pasta, and St Alban's heavenly ordoriforous curds and whey. I speak both metaphorically and literally. Long may the finely sliced, well aged, smoked cheddar reign. Long may the bluers of cheese mould gloriously on.

Dinner in the Desert

As we sat on our haunches beside a slow-burning fire, our host described his family as 'half Bedouin', with homes in the town and this now much reduced camp or small farm holding as a type of evening or weekend retreat. His father, quietly smoking, raisin-complexioned, and comfortably cross-legged sat silently as our host told us how at one time the father herded, milked, and generally farmed 60 camels in the area where now there were six, along with about 30 or so goats, and several sheep.That's Olly, grade three teacher from New Zealand, sitting with the patriarch.

The little grey camel you see below the picture of Olly is just three weeks old while the others are a few months.

We ride into work each day on a 20 seater bus which Muhammed (you'll see him later in the pics, the fellow with the black thobe) drives for us, and let me tell you that in the kind of traffic he has to drive through--speeders, cutters-off, swervers, 11 year old Mario Al-Andrettis, and so on--he is masterful and careful at the same time. Quiet, unassuming, friendly, struggling but game with his small English. We all really like him. We seem to have hit it off because not too long ago he invited the seven regulars along with a couple of others to come to his family's farm retreat to see his camels and to have a light meal. Last night's visit is the result, and it was very touching, very humbling, and very very cool.

The fellow in this picture is an Egyptian who stays at the farming compound year round to feed, milk, and look after the animals. I feel bad that I cannot remember his name, but we met a lot of people last night, and I was probably a bit tipsy from all the sweet tea and camel milk.You can see he is a bit wary of the mother, but you can also see she is a bit wary of her camel-ette being manhandled. Moments before I got this shot, she had bent her head down and lightly butted him on the shoulder, probably as a warning that worse was to come if he wasn't careful. Look at her eye: she's watching very closely.

All the animals were guarded in their approach to us and probably for good reason. When you see how the front leg gets tied up for milking, you'll see that much of their treatment at the hands of humans involves discomfort and probably some pain.By the way, that's our driver doing the milking. It took me back to my summers and winter weekends on my Uncle Doug and Aunt Bernice's farm, minus the tied front leg.

Once the rides were over, we moved into a very comfortable outside parlour where tea was served quite formally. The youngest brother was being trained in how to do this properly, so extra attention to propriety on our part was called for. Often one doesn't know quite how to act as a guest in the home of a host whose roots are foreign and this was a bit more complicated for us because we were being entertained in the home of a family for whom in some ways we symbolised an occupying force. (There are about six million Saudis and over one million expats, and we're the ones who do a good deal of the more meaningful labour: oil execs, teachers, doctors, engineers, and so on, but this is changing, albeit slowly. Many expats do pretty menial stuff too: house cleaning, garbage collection, corner shops, street repair.) In this case, though, we felt nothing but welcomed and respected.

Notice Rose of the Desert perched somewhat royally above it all. Getting onto a camel is like a slightly too large piece of cake, a bit more than you expected or hoped for; in many ways it's a bit like mounting a large bicycle. However, sitting on the camel while it gets itself up off the ground is a lot like sitting on your sofa while being lifted by a giant wave: first you plunge well forward, then you plunge far backward, then finally everything comes steady, but by this time you're so disoriented as to what's going to happen next, you start looking for the gravol . . .  or a chiropractor (at least I did). Once you're up though, the ride is delightfully smooth until the getting down part and then you are back on the nausea train.

In this picture you see Mohommed's older brother carefully straining the warm mild through a seive, probably to make sure none of the hundreds of flies have got themselves caught up in the delicious foam. These bowls were then passed out to us and you could tell it was a bit of a game for the natives as they were all smiles and close looks as we received and then dealt tentatively with the contents. As I said earlier, it reminded me of my days on the farm, so I tilted the bowl back and drank gamely, only to be pleasantly surprised by not only how warm the milk was but also how mildly sweet. No hint of sand, heat, or camel about it. Delish, as they say.

This preceded a traditional Bedouin meal of meat boiled in spicy water for about an hour and a half, served with a small mountain or rice. Normally, this would be eaten by hand--the right hand only--by making little balls out of the meat and rice which are then popped into the mouth. For us, the whole line of cutlery was provided, but a few of us chose to get good and greasy, using the hand method. It was delicious. The fat is left on the meat, perhaps because it's a sign of well-fed animals and this in turn is a sign of prosperity, but I am only guessing. I managed to avoid most of the fat without avoiding most of the taste. Like the milk, it was delicious.

The night ended with a drive through the starry desert, thanks again to Mohammed our driver, who left the dishes for the others to tidy up. We were well fed, well treated, and well satisfied by our excursion into the private lives of people we live and to some extent work closely with but who remain in many ways a distant mystery. Shukraan (shook rawn), Mohammed. Shukraan.