All the
cheese-fanciers are out, thumping the cannon-ball Edams and the
millstone Goudas with their bare red knuckles, plugging in with a
hollow steel tool for samples. In Holland the business of judging a
crumb of cheese has been taken with great seriousness for centuries.
The abracadabra is comparable to that of the wine-taster or
tea-taster. These Edamers have the trained ear of music-masters and,
merely by knuckle-rapping, can tell down to an air pocket left by a
gas bubble just how mature the interior is.
The connoisseurs use gingerbread as a mouth-freshener; and I, too,
that sunny day among the Edams, kept my gingerbread handy and made my
way from one fine cheese to another, trying out generous plugs from
the heaped cannon balls that looked like the ammunition dump at
Antietam.
I remember another market day, this time in Lucerne. All morning I
stocked up on good Schweizerkaese and better Gruyere. For lunch I had
cheese salad. All around me the farmers were rolling two-hundred-pound
Emmentalers, bigger than oxcart wheels.
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