From eating cheap cheddar and ‘plastic’ slices at home in Cumbria to mixing with posh owners of ‘cheese caves’ down south, the Guardian’s restaurant critic on the creamy, fatty, salty bliss of her favourite comfort food
Why does cheese feel like a cuddle? Well, it’s because it just does. It’s because an almost empty fridge containing a small slab of ageing cheddar harbours at least a glimmer of hope – and even if that cheddar has a tiny speck of mould, you can just scrape it off and turn a blind eye (I won’t tell anyone). Find that toasty loaf you’ve got for emergencies in the bottom drawer of the fridge, add a dollop of something runny like brown sauce or some sort of chutney, and there you go: now you have dinner.
Cheese, in all its salty, fatty majesty, could well be the king of comfort foods. We have all at some point found ourselves standing in the light of the chiller cabinet, scooping grated red leicester from the bag, head back, mouth open, pushing those slivers of loveliness down our throats and somehow feeling instantly better. And, in the same vein, after a hard day we have all leaned on that slightly fearsome chunk of apricot-laced wensleydale that we panic-bought before Christmas before promptly forgetting about it – now, doesn’t it taste good on cream crackers with a big cup of tea and EastEnders? Suddenly, your overdue car MOT seems marginally less upsetting.
