The Gruyere question - protecting the identity, culture and history of the world’s cheeses

“Eating is an agricultural act.” - Wendell Berry

In a recent ruling, a U.S. district court in Virginia denied Gruyere cheesemakers’ appeal to protect their name. For a cheese to be called “Gruyere” it does not necessarily need to be made in the region around Gruyeres, Switzerland, says the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office. 

Americans have decided that Gruyere is a style of cheese rather than a region. By contrast, we sanctify the names of wines like Bordeaux and Champagne with religiosity but do not extend the same fervor to a class of agriculture, cheese, which holds a similar depth of historical relevance and cultural significance. It seems this is a reflection of the immature nature of our cheese culture in the U.S. which has blossomed in recent decades but still has a long way to evolve.

For those who don’t know it, Gruyere is a style of cheese made primarily in the town of Gruyere in the canton of Fribourg, Switzerland but also in parts of the French and Austrian Alps. Peasants have been making Gruyere from the milk of their grazing dairy cows since the early 12th century. It is a cheese characterized by a hard texture and delicate sweet, nutty aromas. 

So what does this ruling mean for the European small farms and cheesemakers who for generations have been making the cheese behind this name? The problem is dynamic. For one, the decision plays a role in eroding the distinctive qualities of the cheese. The laws governing the production of Gruyere cheese begins at the farm level. Cows are permitted only certain types of feed and forbidden others such as corn silage. The milk can never reach a temperature “above which it was obtained” (that is, the body temperature of the animal) to preserve the microflora that yields the complex flavors in the finished cheese. In the cheesemaking process, the use of open copper vats and certain bacterial cultures are required. Every precious detail from the salting technique to the pressing schedule is governed including the finished wheels’ maturation on spruce wood shelving.

“The fabrication of Gruyère is carried out according to local customs which are loyal and constant.”  - Swiss Federal Office of Agriculture

If we do not acknowledge the name of this cheese in the U.S., we erase these quality controls which necessarily make this cheese what it is. This dumbing down of cheese identity marks a regression in the culturing of our food system. For decades we have seen a generification in the American cheese case. As authors Bronwen and Francis Percival expose in their book, “Reinventing the Wheel”, much of the seeming diversity in the grocery store cheese case is actually a facade. By and large, these cheeses are all made from similar types of milk using the same cultures and processes on an industrial scale with little microbial variation among them. The subtle flavor and textural differences between “Colby”, “Swiss” and “Mozzarella” are fooling the American consumer into believing they are buying different cheeses when in fact much of them are made in the same facilities with the ultra-pasteurized, commingled milk of hundreds of dairy farms across the country. When a company like Kraft Foods get into the business of labeling their latest style “Gruyere,” we’re in trouble. We must legally acknowledge the labels that serve as an expression of the quality of regional agricultural foods.

As consumers we benefit from increased diversity in our choices not only because a varied diet is better for our health, introducing a mix of nutrients and microbes to our guts, but also because it guides us towards a richer food culture. Since the pandemic began many small farms and artisans have been booming as Americans have “seen the light” and started shifting their habits towards more wholesome lifestyles and values-based consumption. We have seen so many new faces at our stores and markets from people who are spending more time cooking at home and exploring the agricultural foods of their region. For the first time in decades, we artisans have hope that the culture is evolving towards the European model where people bake their daily bread and fix dinner from the bounty they discover at their local farmers market.

The problem with erasing the regional distinctions in food is not just a quality issue, it’s an economic one. It is in the interest of U.S. industrial processors to continue to blur the distinctions between the real deal and its American counterfeits which undoubtedly would sell at more competitive prices.  There is commercial value in these distinguished regional brands, and that dollar value is important in keeping the small farms and traditions alive. If consumption is a political and economic act, then every dollar we spend at the store makes an impact to the survival of these farms. 

What does this all mean to a small cheese farm like ours? For one, my sympathies lie with the small farms of the alps whose livelihoods depend on the protection of their regional brand. Also, I like to imagine what it would be like for, say, Thistle to someday be its own regional cheese. If we perfected the recipe over the years and generations, and someday Kraft wanted to come in and start using the name, I can’t imagine how the hard work and foundations of our creamery would be shook. 

What can we do as consumers? If it is economically viable for your household, keep shopping at your local food co-ops, specialty food stores and farmers markets which necessarily support small, local farms and artisans. Continue to be mindful of the calories you put on your plate and where they are coming from. Consider food shopping as a political act. And when it comes to seeking out that perfect alpine cheese for your next fondue night, for goodness sake, make it the real deal.

Inspirations, uncertainties and the promise of spring

A trip to the Bernese Oberland

I recently traveled to the Swiss alps to hike in big mountains and explore the cheeses made in these remote alpine environments. I was awed by the beauty of the Jungfrau region in the Bernese Oberland with its car-free mountaintop villages and its auburn Fleckvieh cows making "special milk" for cheese. The milk is unique because cheese is only made for 3 months of the year during summer when the snow on the mountain peak melts, giving the cows access to high alpine meadows of wildflowers and native grasses. It's this diverse mix of forage that gives alpine cheeses their unique flavors that cannot be duplicated in any other part of the world (not even the Oley Valley, unfortunately).

I met a dairy farm family whose cows were chomping away on dried hay in their barn, three feet of snow on the ground outside, giant iron cow bells strung along the roofline with pride. While the calves "freshen" or have their baby calves this spring, the milk that flows with this initial lactation feeds the calves and the family until the cheesemaking season begins in June. That's when the magic happens, turning this vibrant milk into a simple pressed cheese that can age anywhere from 6 months to several years. Tickled from learning about my profession back home, a newly acquainted friend and restaurateur gave me the honor of splitting open a 2-year wheel of his grandmother's Berner "AlpKase" and cutting a wedge for me to take home. Carefully and intentionally, I have savored a sliver of that wedge every day since I've been back.

I am grateful for the chance to travel for a couple of weeks to see family in Europe and explore the cheeses that first pulled me towards the craft. I hold a part of each of these voyages in my heart. Half of my family (on my mother's side) lives in the small city of Sint-Truiden in Flanders, Belgium and my sister and her family live in the UK with a move planned to the Netherlands this spring. They give me reason to travel to Europe in winter. Each trip seems to shape me. Sometimes (ok, always) I get inspired by cheese. Usually, I'm humbled by the people I meet who make their living off the land, even in the most rugged environments. Always, I feel overwhelmed with gratitude for the place that I've chosen to lay down roots, the Oley Valley, in all of its flaws and beauty. Home sweet home.

The challenges...

It's a strange time to be living in. Some of you are facing the uncertainty of how your livelihood will be impacted by the global pandemic, and you've been asking me about my business, too. None of us can predict what the next few months will hold. All I know is that this moment of disruption and chaos has strengthened my devotion to getting fresh, wholesome food to my Berks community. While about 30% of our business is based on the restaurant industry in Philadelphia and the Lehigh Valley which of course has come to a complete halt since the statewide mandatory closures were announced this week, there's a good portion of my business that depends on YOU, my individual customers from the region who have stayed with me through thick and thin, through all of the volatility and inconsistency that a small scale creamery business brings. I need you now more than ever.

At the farmers market in Philadelphia this past weekend, people came out in strong numbers, and I believe this happened for several reasons. You are looking for good food. That's an element that hasn't changed with the crisis and perhaps has even been strengthened by it; we all need to boost our immune systems with nutrient-dense foods. Second, an open-aired market is a great place to shop for food. No recirculated air to breathe, no shopping carts to handle, no mobs of customers to contend with. And third, I believe that people come together to support each other in times of crisis. I've noticed friendlier interactions with strangers, renewed friendships doing a better job of keeping in touch, and a sense of camaraderie among the regional food community including consumers, producers, farmers, restaurants and retailers. We are all looking to help each other out, and one way we can do that is to spend our dollars more wisely on the folks who most need it. It's the small businesses - not the big box stores - that need your dollars now more than ever. As long as farmers markets remain open, we’ll keep attending them.

Promise of spring

I'm pleased to announce the hiring of our newest employee, Joel, who is originally from Bismarck, North Dakota and has been a chef in restaurants in Philadelphia and beyond for over 20 years. He brings to Valley Milkhouse a wealth of knowledge that will continue to improve our recipes. Welcome to Oley, Joel!

With the launch of our farmstand this Friday, I am excited to share the cheeses with you that have been aging in our cave all winter.

At the farmstand, I'm trying out a new concept this year. The usual daily self-serve system will be in place 7 days a week as it was last year. On Fridays, I will be opening a "cheese shop" which will be staffed (with a remote doorbell for service) starting at 10 am until 6 pm. Over the years I see people looking perplexed by the funny names we give our cheeses and uncertain about what to actually bring home. This spring, I want to bring you into our world, guide you through our cheeses with tasting notes and pairing ideas and samples to sniff and taste. I will have whole wheels available so you can size up your perfect wedge, and we'll cut and wrap it fresh to order. I am devoting myself more fully to you, my customers who live here in Oley, or throughout Berks, or who even travel from Philadelphia, Easton and beyond to buy our cheeses straight from the source. It fills me with joy to catch you observing our process in action, peeking into our creamery windows, smiling and waiving hello.

Thanks for your support, everyone. I look forward to seeing you this weekend.

Stefanie

A pause for thanks

What a journey these past three years have been. In February of 2014, I spent short winter days in an abandoned milkhouse nailing ceiling joists to barn rafters and grouting tiles. I worked with Mervin Weaver, a Mennonite friend who's handiwork and thrift would get the job done under budget and faster than anticipated. His uncle Elmer with his flatbed trailer and uncanny knowledge of country backroads hauled a collection of dusty steel equipment from the Pisano’s place in Coatesville. Martha Pisano passed away the year before, and she left behind a suite of micro cheesemaking equipment and a flock of East Friesian sheep. I purchased the equipment from her husband Jerry, and an Amish farmer snatched up the flock (whose milk I would later occasionally turn into cheese). I was so nervous the whole drive back from the Pisano’s farm, looking back to watch a 25 gallon vat pasteurizer tip ever so precariously towards the flatbed railing at every bend in the road.

Getting said equipment through the milkhouse door was no smaller a feat. With the help of three grown men, I installed two vats, three stainless drain tables, and a triple sink into a 15 by 20 foot space that would become my home away from home. In that concrete chamber, I would spend every waking hour for the proceeding nine months, only to come up for air in autumn when the days grew cold and short again. I was 28 years old and I had a mission: to start Oley’s first artisan creamery.

People warned me about all of the things: the hours upon hours of dishwashing, the fact that the regulations are getting stricter, the lack of local demand for premium foods. I floated above these cautions with the inflated sense of optimism that has carried me through to this point. I wanted to be an artist in a studio, situated so perfectly between the farm and the kitchen. I wanted to turn grass into cheese, the most refined food in the world. For better or for worse, my first skill was not in cheesemaking, but in ignoring the constraints of reality to whimsically chase a romantic idea.

I’m glad I did. I’m not just saying that because I have to; because technically I’m locked long term into this business with all of its infrastructure, its debts, its dishwashing. I say it because I mean it from the depth of my heart. Taking a risk on cheese was a good risk, and I’ve been richly rewarded with a supportive, collaborative, inspiring peer group and a growing base of customers that, fortunately for me, appreciates good, strong, stinky cheese.

I choke up when I think of how far the business has come in three years thanks to these two groups of people, my peers and supporters. It is you, dear folk, who took a risk on the new gal in town. It is people like you, Sue Miller and Jaap van Liere, mentors and devoted taste testers. I am, never was, the most experienced in the flock. I was guided primarily by a taste memory of the cheeses I grew up with, the ones my mother introduced me to on visits to Belgium and France. I transitioned from home cheesemaker to professional in a few short years, and determined to start my own production, didn’t stop to think that I could have used more training. The short answer is: I could have. Mistakes were made. Luckily, they were tasty mistakes, at least to those with the adventurous palate. And alas, I made a name for myself with oozy textures and big flavors that were only in part intentional. 

The good milk at my foundation is to thank perhaps most of all. I’ve written about beloved Spring Creek Farm before, and I won’t stop praising the Stricker family’s ability to turn luscious grass into high quality milk. It is the finest in the region, I’d venture to say, and I’m equally proud that my grandfather worked with the family on soil amendments during his days as a consultant with Reading Bone. Without the family’s devotion to their herd of Jerseys, Ayrshires and Holsteins, those experiments in the creamery would have turned out all wrong. The gambles worked because the milk was good, and my tinkering was rewarded and encouraged thanks to the riches of butterfat and protein with which the Strickers endowed my stainless steel vat.

Somewhere in the mix, I managed to meet the love of my life and get married. Sure as I was to exist as a peasant Oley Valley cheesemaker for the rest of my life (and just about ok with that notion), I met Pat McPeake and her two friends at the original cheese shop in Oley, the one that happened out of a mini fridge beside my creamery door. She was impressed at my height, and called me the next day to ask - point blank - if I was hitched. Her son Owen was living and working as an acupuncturist in Philly at the time. He showed up to the farm and we walked the trail along the Manatawny, talking about our ancient trades. After a year of shuffling back and forth between his hometown and the city, Owen made the move back to the country, near his family, his beloved natural world and his new love. His small rural practice does well considering its remote location, tucked away on our homestead in the Oley hills. He is part time milk hauler for Valley Milkhouse, cheese deliverer, and strategic advisor. I thank his dear soul for empowering me to keep going, despite the financial strains and long hours. He keeps me honest, true to the passion that brought me here.

A wise woman once told me, "the only thing more overrated than natural childbirth is running your own business." The challenges ahead are real and getting harder. It seems that starting the operation was the easy part; sustaining it will be the real triumph. I am examining the ways I can build a lab and acquire some fairly costly testing equipment to comply with new regulations on antibiotic testing. I am also looking to expand my aging space to improve consistency of the cheeses and enable further experimentation with new styles. I am making arrangements for better transport and shipping to my wholesale partners within the region; I long to spend more time with the cheese and less time on the road. All of these projects cost time, money and wrinkles. 

So, at this crucial three year mark, I give pause to thank all of you for leading me to this point of what I would call success. I appreciate how far you have carried me and humbly approach the future with your wind at my back. 

The Best of Both Fermentations

In a cheese vat filled with curds and beer is the best place to begin to tell the story of my latest Belgian adventure. 

But first, I should explain why I’m here.

My link to Belgium begins on an apple orchard in St. Truiden, where my late mother’s family is now in its third generation of fruit production. My mother grew up there, and nearly all of my aunts, uncles and cousins on her side still live there. I enjoy visiting them because they live next to the Wilderen brewery and distillery, where the only menu offerings are beer, gin, and ice cream sundaes. (This is classically Belgian: the epitome of decadence.) 

My mother met my father in Belgium when he was a pro basketball player in Europe in the 70’s and ‘80s. He was playing for the team of my mother’s hometown; they fell in love and started a family. I was born in Switzerland, my sister in Belgium, and we both spent our early years in Spain. When I was five years old, they chose to move back to my father’s Pennsylvania Dutch roots in Berks County to raise their children, which is precisely how I ended up with one foot in both countries. (I’ve calculated that both halves contribute equally to my affection for good beer.)

This winter, I seized the opportunity to book a plane ticket to Brussels, excited in equal parts to visit my mother’s family and travel on a sort of cheese pilgrimage.

A month before the trip, I reached out to several creameries throughout Flanders, the northern, Flemish speaking part of Belgium. I contacted eight, to be exact, and I was happy to be welcomed by two. 

I spent last week with the first one, a small dairy farm and creamery, De Vierhoekhoeve (a name which I can now proudly spell) where I assisted the cheesemaker in his process of making what is known in Belgium as bierkaas, or literally, beer cheese.

The cheesemaker, Pieter Taelman, became interested in bieerkass when he married into the family farm, forming the second generation of ownership alongside his wife, Hilde. There was a brewery in the town that he thought might enjoy having its beer made into cheese.

He thought right. The brewery was Delirium Tremens, ranked among the best beers in the world. It took Pieter several years of perfecting his bierkaas recipe, and he now makes cheese for many of the finest breweries in the country - Pater Lieven, Hopus, Gruut, Duvel, Liefman's Kriek; the list goes on. He uses blonde ales, brown ales, krieks, trappist beers - the cheese does well with any beer style. Conveniently, there are plenty to choose from.

Bierkaas is a style that is made like a Gouda, but in the midst of the process, fresh curds are soaked in beer. The curds spend an hour bathing in ale, absorbing as much of it as possible, before getting drained in small round forms and pressed for several hours to form classic baby Gouda wheels. The wheels are painted with cheese coating to protect the rind and aged for several weeks, months or years. 

In the cheese’s young form of 4 weeks, the flavor of the ale is highly pronounced, and some mongers can even identify the brewery based on a blind taste of the cheese. As the cheese ages, the ale flavor takes a back seat to the caramel, nutty flavors that begin developing. After several months, the cheese identifies as a mature Gouda, initially sweet, sharp on the finish, and teeming with crystal crunch.

I had encountered the cheese before, although not consciously. While traveling here as an adolescent when I was first discovering beer (of course, the legal drinking age of 18 is a mere suggestion), I found it entirely amusing to be served three cubes of cheese with my beer at the bar. It was years later that I was able to put it all together; that said cubes of cheese were actually bierkaas, not a snack, but a specialty.

Some may say that the cheese is meant to be enjoyed with a glass of the beer with which is it made, but I think that it’s the other way around. The beer needs the cheese to become a perfect pairing, and this, I profess, with my whole (half Belgian, half American) heart. 

cheese is history

Many people ask me: how and why did I come to develop the ashen, bloomy Witchgrass? 

There are several layers in the answer to this question - personal, geographical and historical. 

For one, I love mold. I love all it can do for cheese - preserve and protect it, develop interesting flavor complexes, and most importantly, break down the proteins that convert a tangy, fresh cheese into a layered, decadent paste. I find these cheeses not only the most interesting to eat and share at a table, but also the most fascinating to make. It is exciting to watch the blanket of white mold grow on the surface, turning a round of yellow cheese into a fluffy, white cloud. And I love to observe the ripening process from the surface-in, evidenced only with the breaking of the seal and the first slice into a Crottin.

But of course, the origins of a lactic bloomy extend much further than this love affair. 

The true answer lies in a history lesson.

This type of cheese, along with many of France’s best, developed in the home kitchen of a French peasant farmer in the Middle Ages. The story is worth telling because it represents the cornerstone in the evolution from simple fresh and pressed cheeses to the more complex, surface-ripened ones we know and love today.

As had been commonplace for several thousand years before Medieval times, milk was turned into cheese for the purposes of storage and nutrition (in early human history, we were still evolving a tolerance for lactose, and cheese was discovered to be the only means of digesting milk). Cheese was both a primary food source for the peasant families as well as a part of the rent they paid to their landlords. And the types of cheeses that developed during this period - the soft ripened, lactic curd, bloomy rind cheeses of the world - did so as a direct result of the climate, social structures and division of household work duties of these times.

Peasants living in the Middle Ages in northwestern Europe subsisted as tenant farmers, renting land from manor lords to grow crops and pasture animals. These peasants grazed cows on common lands while their landlords’ fields were used during the growing season. In the off season, the cows were allowed to graze on the stubble after harvest. Given this limited feed supply, a peasant could keep only a cow or two at the most, and these cows yielded a very small volume of milk, probably about one gallon a day.

This limited milk supply is an important factor in the evolution of ancient cheeses, and it was compounded by the role of the woman on the farm. Since the responsibility of growing food kept the men in the fields all day, it became the woman’s role to take care of all the rest. She tended to the chickens and pigs, brought grain to the miller and baked bread with the flour, tended to the herb garden, cared for the children, did the cooking, spun and weaved wool and flax into clothing and blankets, and mastered the fermentations of brewing beer and - most importantly to this story - making cheese. 

Here is the critical part: considering her extensive list of wifely duties, the peasant cheesemaker would have not have had time to make cheese with such a small volume of milk after each milking. She found it most efficient to pool milk from two milkings so that the process of making cheese was worth her while, and so that she had a larger volume to work with.

The pooling of milk from two or more milkings was possible thanks to the cooler, damper climate of northwestern Europe. While recipes evolved from the European peasants’ Mediterranean cheesemaking forbears who could make only fresh cheeses for immediate consumption, the northerners could store milk at a reasonable temperature for a short period of time for the first time in cheese making history.

It was in these very hours of milk storage that the great cheeses of Europe were born. During milk storage, bacteria naturally present in the milk would have the opportunity to get a head start on fermentation, converting lactose milk sugars into acid. This slow, natural acidification of the milk before coagulation is what helped it develop the flavors and textures of more complex cheeses. 

The final tipping point is this: the cool, damp climate that allowed these families to store milk for a day was the same environment that allowed for the storage of the finished cheese, as well. Cheeses were made using similar methods of the fresh cheeses of the Mediterranean, but could be stored in a cool, damp climate, which fostered the growth of all sorts of yeasts and molds on the cheese surface. These natural rinds served two purposes: they preserved the cheese for longer periods of time (as a blanket of white mold is competition enough for unwanted molds and bacteria), and the rinds also ripened the cheeses from the outside-in, allowing for the breakdown of proteins that lead to creamy, oozy textures.

Once the cheesemaker discovered these variables and their effects on the outcome of the cheese, she could begin to play around with the parameters to yield a wide variety of cheeses. It’s no wonder that, in time, France developed several hundred varieties and many of the world’s most complex cheeses.

And there it is: an evolution in cheese that took place out of practicality and led to the highly impractical, indulgent cheeses we adore today. 

* A special thanks to Paul Kindstedt for all of his wonderful research on the history of cheese. Read more in his book, Cheese and Culture.