Cream cheese

When we were squatting chez Thomas and Katia, we'd stock up on Reblochon, Petit Basque and Chèvre like fermented milk products were going out of style. It wouldn't have been out of the ordinary for us to say, snack on Conté while watching Star Ac', or lick a knife weighted down with Camembert while kvetching in the kitchen.

And then we went to the region of Côte d'Or.

In the small village of Courcelles-Frémoy, inhabited mainly by farming families, there exists a decided predilection for a type of cheese called 'Epoisse'. Epoisse is from the Burgundy region, though I'm not sure if its origins can be traced back to the good folk of Courcelles-Frémoy. But that is neither here nor there. During our stay in C.E., Epoisse became the mascot for every meal, lavish or modest. For breakfast, with lunch, and after dinner, 3 or 4 small wooden containers of the stuff would be ceremoniously delivered to the table by our host, inciting a round of "ooh"s and "ahhh ah!"s to emanate from the table, similar to when your mom's birthday cake arrives in all its candle-laden glory. Dipping whatever utensil happened to be in reach into the wooden round of cream, leering at the triangle slipping off and onto a morsel of bread or directly onto our salivating tongues, the odor of feet and mold only added to the drama imbuing this ritual. I can even recall a "friendly" dispute between two guests with equally gargantuan appetites, when one accused the other of hording a carton "all to himself". Things nearly got ugly when the alleged offender refused to relinquish the Epoisse, claiming that he'd been cruelly deprived of his fair share during the previous meal.

Now that we're back in Paris, too busy cobbling armoirs, beds, and chairs to allow for fantasies of Brie and Port Salut to interrupt our work, we've all but forgotten the necessity of a glob of Epoisse cradled on a ripped baguette. That and the Monop' up the street doesn't sell it.