For Cheddar or Worse Read online

  “He lives in Texas, remember?”

  “A hop, skip, and a jump from Ohio.”

  “Oh, Charlotte.”

  “Don’t ‘Oh, Charlotte’ me,” I said. “He travels all the time, which means he could live anywhere, and he’s dedicated to family.”

  “Stop!” She swatted my arm, but her eyes glistened with hope.

  I bid her good night and followed Jordan upstairs to our room.

  Soon after, I slipped beneath the bedcovers and snuggled into his arms.

  He kissed my temple, his favorite spot—or so he said. “Have your willies subsided?”

  “Yes. Sort of.” I worked my teeth over my upper lip. “Where do you think the word willies comes from?”

  He thought about it. “There’s an Eastern European word willi, meaning wood nymph or fairy, which can be sort of eerie.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Crosswords, my love. You got me into them. Now sleep tight. I love you.” He kissed me again.

  I dreamed of nymphs, satyrs, and all sorts of odd creatures cavorting through the woods. In the dream just before waking, I was clothed in a flowing white gown and dubbed the forest priestess. Some animals were bowing to me; others were making weird gestures. Needless to say, it was all very unsettling.

  ***

  Early Friday morning, a rooster crowed.

  I bolted to a sitting position and muttered, “Can’t fool him. Sun’s up.”

  “It is not. He’s early.” Jordan ran a hand along my shoulders. “Lie down.”

  “Can’t sleep. I’m awake.” And the willies, for no good reason, were back. In spades. Drat. “I think I’ll take a walk.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  The two of us washed and dressed for the day ahead—I put on a pair of chinos, a linen button-down shirt, and flats—and minutes later, we headed downstairs. The inn was as quiet as a tomb. No one, other than us, had taken the rooster’s advice to rise and shine.

  Quietly we opened the door and jogged down the steps. The sun was barely making its way over the hills to the east but offered enough light for a hike. A gentle low emanated from the small herd of cows; chickens skittered in the henhouse. A lone baby goat made its way to the fence that corralled the young ones and maaed. Then it climbed up the fence and put its hooves on the top rung.

  “Jordan, look.” I strolled to the fence and scratched the goat’s neck. “Hi, fella.” Like a dog, he nudged my hand with his ear for more . . . more. I obliged then said, “See you around.”

  Jordan and I took off at a brisk pace. The trails were winding with slow-rising slopes and gentle downhill terrain. The sound of pressed gravel crackled beneath our feet. The scent of dew-kissed grass wafted up. Delightful.

  Neither of us said a word for a half hour, not until Jordan’s stomach grumbled.

  “Hungry?” I asked. My tummy complained as well. The willies had vanished.

  “Famished,” he said and growled like a cartoon monster.

  “Race you back.” I tore ahead, my shoes smacking the trail.

  Jordan won, of course. His legs were longer, his stamina fierce. But I wasn’t far behind.

  We jogged up the steps of the inn. The aroma of sizzling bacon and fresh-brewed coffee made my mouth water.

  “Just in time,” I said.

  Many bed-and-breakfast inns in Providence served family-style meals. Everyone ate at the same time, or they didn’t eat.

  Erin had decorated the cheery breakfast room in blue and yellow gingham and furnished it with six picnic-style tables fitted with benches. On each table, Erin had set a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a bowl of fruit. On a few of the tables stood stacks of Lara Berry’s newest book. On other tables sat selections of Ryan Harris’s book. Hmm. Had Erin or Kandice placed the books there, or had the authors? I didn’t see Ryan in attendance. Maybe he didn’t eat breakfast. I knew plenty of people who wouldn’t, or couldn’t. I nabbed a copy of both books and thumbed through Ryan’s first. A family’s name headed each chapter, the name representing one of the families he had consulted. Pictures were included throughout. Nice.

  Eighteen guests were nestled at the tables; some had come from Lavender and Lace, the B&B next to my house. It wasn’t that Lois, the owner, didn’t make a superb breakfast, but the brain trust was set to start in less than an hour. The guests were wise to be present.

  Kandice spotted me and patted her table. “Charlotte, Jordan. Join us.” She looked rested. She had feathered a few strands of hair—once again highlighted with pink—around her face. How she’d accomplished re-dying her hair with an injured arm amazed me. The peppermint-pink blouse with puffy short sleeves that she was wearing brought out the color in her cheeks. She had donned dangling pink earrings to match.

  Lara, who was also seated at the table, reminded me of a haughty princess with her hair wound in a topknot and circled with an amber-and-black beaded headband. She was going over a schedule Kandice had given us and jotting remarks in the columns. Beside Lara sat Victor, who was texting someone on his cell phone. His face glistened, as if he had swathed it with lotion.

  Shayna, who nearly matched the room in a blue sack-style dress, had taken a seat at another table. She wasn’t conversing with anyone at her table. She seemed captivated by Ryan’s book. Her tablemates didn’t seem to mind. She glimpsed me as I passed, but she didn’t set aside the book. Her eyes appeared puffy, the way mine would be if I’d cried myself to sleep.

  I mouthed: Are you okay?

  She nodded: Fine.

  “Come on, you two,” Kandice said. “Sit.”

  I started to slide in beside Victor, but when I caught a whiff of his overpoweringly musky scent, I opted to settle onto the bench beside Kandice instead. Jordan cozied up to me.

  “I can’t thank you two enough for helping me last night,” Kandice said.

  “How is your arm?” I asked.

  “Sore, but I slept like a baby thanks to the pill the doctor gave me. Let’s hear it for meds!” She leaned forward, fingering the bandage on her arm. “Between you and me, I don’t like taking pills, except the pain was unbearable.”

  “How’d you manage to change your hair color?” I asked.

  “Spray it on, brush it out. Easy-peasy.” She mimed the action. “Hey, did you hear the rooster this morning?”

  “Cock-a-doodle-doo,” Victor crowed and continued texting.

  “Good imitation, Vic.” Kandice grinned. “Right afterward, something started tap-tapping next door to my room.” She knuckled the table to illustrate. “I think there might be a resident squirrel living in the walls.”

  Or a resident autistic brother, I mused. Hadn’t Erin mentioned Andrew to Kandice and the others?

  Erin, wearing a darling yellow frock with a blue gingham apron, approached the table and offered us menus. Prior to the brain trust, she had sent out a questionnaire asking everyone about dietary issues. Apparently there were a few because the menu offered a choice of eggs cooked any way, ham or bacon, and regular cheeses as well as vegan cheeses like Miyoko’s Kitchen Aged English Sharp Farmhouse, a delectable alternative to dairy cheese made with cashews and organic chickpea miso. Erin also offered a selection of muffins—either regular or gluten-free.

  After we ordered, Erin pointed out Ryan’s and Lara’s books, thus settling the mystery of how they had wound up on the tables. She had put them there. Each of us could take one. She added that they were wonderful. She had read both.

  Victor rapped his cell phone on the stack of Lara’s newest book. “I’m telling you, it’s great, Lara. Your best book yet. Very detailed. How did you do all the winery research?”

  Lara grinned. “One glass at a time.”

  “I mean, alone or with a companion?”

  “Why, Victor.” Lara offered a wry look. “Are you hitting on me again? Are you hopin
g you can be the companion with whom I do my next taste test? Or did someone stand you up?” She wiggled a pinky at his cell phone. “Hand me your cell phone, and let me input my contact information.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” She grabbed his cell phone and stared at the screen. “Hmm. Who are you texting, darling?”

  Victor snatched back the phone.

  “Aw, Victor,” Lara cooed. “Where has your sense of humor gone? You used to be plein de vie.”

  Victor bridled. “I’m still full of life.”

  “You’re full of something, all right.”

  “Lara, I’m warning you—”

  “Say, Victor,” Kandice interrupted. “I hear you’re quite a collector.”

  “Of . . .” Lara asked leadingly. “Women? Phone numbers? French-made shoes and clothes?”

  “Cut it out,” Victor warned.

  “French antiques,” Kandice said, perfectly serious. “Tell us about some of them, Victor.”

  “Don’t.” Lara yawned. “It’s so boring.”

  Victor shot her a murderous look and through clenched teeth said, “Sure, Kandice, I’d love to.” His cruel gaze revealed he intended to stick it to Lara. He pocketed his cell phone and folded his arms in front of him on the table. “To begin with, I have entire rooms filled with exemplary examples of Louis XIII, XIV, and XV furniture. By the way, identifying the differences between the three can be taxing.”

  “Isn’t some of the furniture in the inn’s living room Louis XIV?” I asked.

  Lara rolled her eyes at me as if willing me not to encourage him.

  Victor, who seemed to be on surer footing thanks to an audience, ignored her. “Indeed, the stately sofas are. You have a good eye, Charlotte.”

  No, I didn’t. My grandmother owned a Louis XIV table with cabriole legs. It was a cumbersome piece but so detailed.

  “You see,” Victor went on, “Louis XIII is a product of a more conservative time. It was massive and monumental. During Louis XIV’s reign, furniture grew more elaborate yet more feminine.” He continued enlightening us until breakfast arrived, then conversation turned toward what the day’s activities would be.

  I savored every bite of my gluten-free blueberry muffin and asked Erin if she would share the recipe because my niece Clair—actually, Matthew’s girls, Clair and her twin sister, Amy, weren’t really my nieces, more like my first cousins once removed, but niece was so much easier to say—had to eat gluten-free. Erin was quick to comply. She hurried to the kitchen and in a matter of seconds reappeared with a recipe card.

  A quarter of an hour later, Erin announced that it was time to head to the facility. The brain trust was about to begin.

  Emerald Pastures Farm had two cheese-making facilities. The one where the farm made goat milk cheeses was a holdout from the earlier days of the farm. The other, where Cheddars were made, was state-of-the-art. The make room for Cheddar was much like the one at Pace Hill Farm. It measured about thirty-by-twenty feet and was windowless. A stainless steel vat, which was about half the size of the room, stood in the middle of the brick-tiled floor. Long whisk-like prongs were attached to a metal arm above the vat. Behind the vat was a conveyor belt loaded with metal boxes. Paddles, ladles, and other tools hung on the far wall. Unlike the facility at Pace Hill Farm, the far end of the make room consisted of a wall of clear glass. Beyond the glass, there was a visitors’ room where, usually, the public could view the cheese-making process. Not today.

  Twenty of us, each wearing a white coat, latex gloves, and a hairnet—real attractive—clustered between the vat and the conveyer belt. Quigley Pressman, who was standing at the front of the pack, held up a tape recorder as Kandice drew in front of the crowd.

  “Listen up, everyone,” Kandice began.

  A chill cut through me. My whole body started to shake.

  Jordan wrapped his arm around me. “Are you okay?” he whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Liar. You’re thinking about Tim.”

  A few months back, we had found our friend Timothy O’Shea drowned in a cheese vat. I hadn’t been inside a cheese-making facility since. I had shared my reservations about doing the brain trust with Jordan, but he had convinced me that I needed to do it. FYI: Riding a bike was definitely easier.

  I nodded. “I’m fine.”

  “Hey, gorgeous.” Victor, wearing a supercilious grin, pressed in beside Lara.

  She swiveled away and bumped into Ryan, who was slipping in at the last moment. His eyes were red-rimmed and tight, as if he had stayed up all night.

  “Sorry,” Ryan mumbled, even though he hadn’t caused the collision. He skirted behind all of us and squished in between Erin and Shayna.

  “Where’ve you been?” Erin asked.

  “Talking to my kids.” Ryan offered a what-can-you-do look.

  She gazed at him with such desire. How I hoped he wouldn’t break her heart.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Kandice said. “It is a pleasure to put on such a prestigious event. I’m excited to learn what each of you know. I hope you’ll be open and forthcoming.” She focused on Victor. “No room for smart-mouth remarks in here.”

  Victor held up his hands as if to say: Don’t look at me.

  “And now,” Kandice said, “I’d like to turn the event over to Erin, our hostess.”

  The group applauded.

  “Welcome!” Erin said in a booming voice.

  I chuckled. Did she think she was in an auditorium and needed to project? Jordan elbowed me. I curbed my giggling.

  Erin must have realized how loud she had sounded. She blushed and in a softer tone said, “Welcome. First of all, let me tell you what our process is, and then we’ll dig in. We bring the milk from the holding tank at the dairy to here.” She spread her arms. “By the way, the dairy is way across the property, if you didn’t see it on your way in.” She flapped a hand in that direction. “Next, we pour the milk into the vat, we pasteurize it, and then add starter culture to begin the process. We allow the milk to ripen, which means the lactose, a form of sugar, begins turning to lactic acid. When the curds and whey are separated, most of the lactic acid is washed away, which is why most cheese, except fresh cheeses, have little or no lactose and are okay for those who are lactose intolerant. Pretty cool, right? Okay, moving on . . .”

  I knew the next few steps. I imagined many of us did. They are similar among most cheese makers. Rennet is added to coagulate the milk. Once the cheese is of a tofu-like consistency, the cheese maker cuts the curd. Depending on how hard the cheese needs to be dictates how large or small the curd. For example, a soft cheese like Brie, packaged in a six- to eight-ounce box, may be one curd while the curds for a firm cheese like Parmesan will be the size of rice. Then the curds are stirred and left in the whey. Soon after, the whey is drained out, and the curds can be formed into rectangles on either side of the vat. At Emerald Pastures, the rectangles are then cheddared, a process that requires the rectangles to be cut into slabs, after which they are stacked, rotated, and stacked again. Next, the slabs are milled into long thin tubes, what some called fingers, to increase the surface area so the cheese can be salted. Salt impedes any further action by the starter culture.

  “In general,” Erin said, “three to four ounces of rennet are added to approximately one thousand pounds of milk. When diluting the rennet—”

  “Excuse me,” Lara cut in. “Where do you get your water? Is it pure?”

  “Absolutely,” Erin said. “We draw it from a spring on the property. Any impurities that cause the pH to be less than seven—”

  “Has the spring been tested for impurities?” Lara asked.

  “Yes. There’s absolutely no chlorine, either.”

  “Which starter culture do you use?” Ryan said.

  “O-culture,” Erin replied. “The optimum growth temperature is typical
ly twenty to thirty degrees centigrade.”

  Shayna said, “Do you ever add a yogurt culture?”

  Lara threw her a scathing look. “Really, Shayna? How naïve are you? A yogurt culture when mixed with the O-culture is best for Camembert or Feta.”

  “Americans don’t make Camembert,” Victor said. “That’s an AOC designation.”

  “Wrong.” I held up a finger. “The name Camembert is not protected. Americans do make Camembert, using pasteurized milk. So do the Italians.”

  Victor frowned. “Yes, but true Camembert—”

  Kandice clapped her hands. “Let’s keep on point, folks. The process that we’re studying is cheddaring. Moving on.”

  We touched on the art of affinage. Kandice and Erin deferred to Jordan, since he was the expert. Victor, an obvious anti when it came to affinage—aging a cheese longer than the time the cheese maker had chosen to age it was a point of contention to him—took Jordan on.

  “If Cheddar is ripened carelessly,” Victor stated, “it can turn sulfuric and rotten-eggy.”

  “Nothing will spoil on my watch,” Jordan said. “At Pace Hill Farm, we pay attention to what each cheese maker wants. We understand that our clients have a sweet spot.” Sweet spot refers to the age where cheese makers think their cheese is perfect; they would prefer to have it consumed at that age. “Affinage is about more than letting a few wheels sit until some mystical timer goes off. It is about a series of repetitive procedures: washing, flipping, and brushing—”

  “Except you aren’t in charge any longer, are you?” Victor taunted. “Haven’t you ceded the farm to your sister?”

  “She will be as conscientious as I was.”

  “Maybe you should write a book about the art.” Victor meant for the comment to sting.

  Jordan’s mouth twitched; he was doing his best to keep calm. “Maybe I will.”

  And so it went for the afternoon, each cheese maker, marketing expert, or connoisseur having an opinion as we stirred, cut, drained, and milled the cheese. Lara asked the most questions, posing hers to Kandice, as if trying to put her on the spot, no doubt as retribution for Kandice’s bungling of the previous day’s travel arrangements. Quigley surprised me and didn’t ask one question. His mouth hung slightly open, as if he was in awe. Jordan, who understood the cheese-making process better than anyone, also kept quiet unless called upon. I loved that aspect of him. He knew when to observe and when to dive into a discussion.