Portraits of Cheeses — Part II: AMERICA

Cheese comes from all over the world, but above all else it comes from AMERICA! California, Wisconsin, Vermont, a bag, a box, a can, and Wisconsin. AMERICA!

Part II: AMERICA

Milk is some shade of white; you might say, milky white. And yet some cheese is pure orange, or heavenly orange, or unnaturally orange. How does cheese become orange?

“It’s mold! MOLD!” you bellow at the screen, in a way you haven’t done since you were a tyke, feverishly trying to convince Dora the Explorer to turn around. “Behind you, Dora! BEHIND YOU!”

Well, mold turns cheese bluish or a little green, but not orange — no, that quality belongs to annatto. From the achiote tree (Bixa orellana) come seeds that, once ground, can be added to all sorts of foods as a coloring agent and spice. Its reddish-orange color dilutes with the host food and results in a yellow or orange stain; and the taste it imparts is often described as “slightly nutty, sweet, and peppery.”

Many artisans rely on annatto for custards, sausages, and smoked fish, while many heartless robots—such as those who work in the processed food industry—use annatto to dye snack foods, breakfast cereals, pastries, potatoes, butter, margarine, dairy spreads, and cheeses.

If you’re an American, you know cheddar as a cheese that’s unnaturally orange. Hell, if you’re a full-blooded American then the only cheese you eat is “American cheese” that’s been processed through a watery combination of recycled plastic and faux-annatto dyes Yellow 5 and Yellow 6, packaged together in cellophane-wrapped singlets! AMERICA!

And if you are a full-blooded American, you’ll be displeased to know that—as of 2016—Kraft has removed all artificial dyes from its processed cheeses, and they’ve been replaced with all-natural annatto and paprika. Yeah, you can thank an army of bored soccer moms for that. Apparently they took issue with Yellows 5 & 6 being carcinogenic. Pshaw!

TRUE Americans love foods baked with synthetic petrochemicals! They’re good for your bones!

With processed cheese industry kingpins dropping chemical dyes from their menus, they’re reverting back to the original, traditional, “artisanal” method of dying foods: spices, such as paprika and annatto. Even Cheez-Its—which are primarily flour and vegetable oil, mixed with a little skimmed milk (that’s right, it’s not even cheese; it’s skimmed milk)—have dropped the dyes in favor of oleoresin paprika extract (98% vegetable oil, 2% capsaicin) for taste and tert-Butylhydroquinone (or, synthetic aromatic hydrocarbon compound TBHQ) for smell.

However, if you go to the source—true, natural cheddar—you’ll find a hard, off-white or somewhat-orange (if annatto is added) cheese that often tastes sharp and a little bitter. It derives its name from the English village it was born from, in the southwestern civil parish of Somerset County.

The village of Cheddar is tucked in a cove under the Mendip Hills, which feature several deep limestone caverns and Britain’s largest gorge. This area is rather temperate, like most of England, with a unique geological and biological environment. The limestone caverns gave the village its name, as the word “Cheddar” comes from the Old English “ceodor,” meaning “deep, dark cavity.”

These limestone cavities were home to early Saxons, who built a palace into the edifice of the Mendip Hills, and were even occupied as far back as the Neolithic period. The nearby Gough's Cave had hosted a human settlement over ten-thousand years ago. In fact, Britain’s oldest complete human skeleton (the delightfully-named Cheddar Man) was found here in 1903, and he was determined to be at least 9,000 years old. The archaeologists who discovered him presume he died a violent death, and a craterous lesion above the skull’s right eye socket suggests he had a severe bone infection.

Caves such as Gough’s provided an ideal humidity and steady temperature for maturing cheese; and with the limestone drippings that slicked the cavern walls, there was a natural saltiness in the air that could preserve the cheese and give it the delicate tang that cheddar is known for. As the settlement grew through the centuries into a legitimate Anglo-Saxon village, the lords of the cheese decreed that “true cheddar” could only be produced within thirty miles of the Wells Cathedral, at the southern tip of the Mendip Hills Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, between Wookey Hole and Dinder, betwixt Bleadney and Gurney Slade, just outside of East and West Horrington. Cheddar itself is four miles from the twelfth century cathedral, on the other side of Priddy and Rodney Stoke.

(I’m having a blast with these English town names.)

A pipe roll from 1170 recorded King Henry II as purchasing over ten-thousand pounds of cheddar cheese at a price of a farthing per pound. (If there were four farthings in a penny, and twelve pence made a shilling, and 20 shillings made a pound, and if 1 Pound sterling equals 1.29 USD as of September third, 2018, then 10,240 lbs of cheddar cheese purchased in 1170 cost King Henry II about $13.76 in today’s money. Now that’s a muhfuckin’ cheese budget.)

Charles I—once the supreme leader of the three kingdoms—was known to buy copious amounts of the village’s famous cheese. That is, until the public revolted in January of 1649. Charles I was hogtied and brought to the plaza outside the Palace of Whitehall. It was a cold morning, and he wore two shirts to conceal his shivering. They cut his head off at two hours past noon; the crowd dipped their handkerchiefs in his blood as mementos; and his head was sewn back onto his body before being embalmed and buried. (The seventeenth century was a wild time.)

As for the recipe of cheddar, nobody is certain of its inventor. Some say the Romans brought it with them from the Cantal region of France, when Caesar was doing his publicity tours in 55-54 BC, but we know not of cheddar’s mother. We can say, however—with certainty—who the father of cheddar cheese is…

In nineteenth century Somerset, dairyman Joseph Harding was elbow-deep in a cow when he wondered aloud “there must be a better way to make cheese.” He believed cheesemaking was a science rather than an art. He once said that cheese is “not made in the field, nor in the byre, nor even in the cow—it is made in the dairy.”

He created a “revolving breaker” that took the manual labor out of cutting curds; he instituted hygienic standards for the dairy, to limit microbial interference; and he disseminated the cheesemaking process into its basic parts, and he attributed these systems to machines. He not only modernized cheesemaking, but he standardized it.

Harding could’ve stopped there, but legends aren’t born from quitting; legends are made in the placenta of empires. And so Joseph Harding took his cheesemaking production to Scotland, Australia, New Zealand, and AMERICA, where manufacturing was booming.

When the Second World War began its whole “thing,” the British Isles sacrificed their resources for the military’s defense efforts. Milk was rationed, and the sole variety of cheese being manufactured was a lackluster curd nicknamed “government cheddar.” Prior to WWII, there were over 3,500 unique dairies in Britain; after the consolidation of WWII, less than a hundred remained. The art of cheesemaking had effectively been killed in England.

But if you’re Joseph Harding, you were okay with that. After all, standardized cheddar is the world’s most popular variety of cheese. It’s also the most studied kind of cheese. In the UK, standardized cheddar accounts for 51% of the cheese market, to the tune of $2.45 billion annually. In America, cheddar is a close-second to mozzarella, with an annual consumption rate of 10 lbs per capita and a production rate of over 3,000,000,000 lbs per year. (That’s a lot of standardized cheddar.)

One of the men who took Harding’s method of cheesemaking into consideration was Joseph F. Steinwand of Wisconsin. In 1885, Steinwand was tooling around with cheddar in his father’s dairy when he decided to strip the whey out altogether and wash the curds in water. This took the acidity of the curd down, resulting in a distinct, mild flavor.

Thanks to his washed-curd process, he produced a softer, moister, tastier cheese than cheddar, which he named for the three-year-old town on the outskirts of his father’s dairy: Colby, Wisconsin.

A pound of this semi-hard cheese required a gallon of milk to make, though none of that milk today comes from Colby. In fact, the town of Colby no longer produces Colby cheese. Like Batman, Colby cheese has ascended the limitations of its origin and has become an idea.

Steinwand once said, “People need dramatic examples to shake them out of apathy and I can't do that… As a man, I'm flesh and blood; I can be ignored; I can be destroyed; but as a symbol… as a symbol, I can be incorruptible; I can be everlasting.” A few years later, he was found crawling around the dirt floor of his father’s barn, wearing nothing but a black cowl and grumbling “Where’s Rachel?” at the top of his lungs.

Colby-Jack (or Cojack, if you’re cool) is a blend of Colby and Monterey Jack, often sold at a young age in various moon shapes. Monterey Jack (but his friends just call him Jack) is America’s sassiest cheese; typically white but sometimes not, Jack is always semi-hard. And when I say always, I mean always semi-hard.

Monterey Jack is made the same way as Colby, except it was originally made by the Franciscan friars of Monterey, California, rather than in Wisconsin by the Midwestern version of Batman. The Franciscans, during a particularly festive drought, got a bit frisky in the dry heat. While shirtless (presumably) and suffering from heat stroke, they threw some herbs and chili peppers in with the curds, resulting in what we now call “Pepper Jack.”

As sharp as Monterey Jack but hailing from Colby’s corner of the country is Muenster cheese. Introduced to the Midwest by German immigrants, this semi-soft cheese gets its distinct washed-rind appearance from a process developed in Alsace-Lorraine—the European border region where the French and German cultures blend.

Muenster is not to be confused with Munster, which is made from the unpasteurized milk of the cows found roaming the low mountains of the Vosges, in eastern France. No, it is not this Munster. Nor is it “Munster-Géromé” which is brewed in the cellars of Franche-Comté, on the French-Swiss border. The appellation d'origine contrôlée (or, AOC, meaning “protected designation of origin”) restricts the labeling of cheeses as “Munster-Géromé” to the region from which the process was born.

But nowadays most people don’t want to eat unpasteurized mountain cheese, nor do they want to import it from France. Instead, most people purchase their cheeses from the grocery store, and the grocery store procures these cheeses from distributors—tractor trailers and freight trains dedicated to circulating and delivering the cheeses made in factories across America.

It is this kind of cheese, dear reader, that defines our great nation.

American cheese is as diverse as the country it’s named for. It can be white, yellow, orange; mild, salty, sweet, bland; firm or semi-firm, but it always has a low melting point, and it always comes out of a factory. And when I say always, I mean always comes from a factory.

In its early days, American cheese was white (like most of the country was, in its early days) as it was made from a blend of cheeses that were typically white. However, as the nation began to sprinkle annatto into every goddamn batch of curds, the cheeses with which American cheese was made began to turn somewhat yellow, and then very yellow. By the turn of the twentieth century, American cheese was so yellow that people just called it “yellow cheese.”

This yellow Frankenstein of cheeses has become so commonplace that manufacturers are legally required to blend at least two kinds of cheeses before calling it “American.” Furthermore, it cannot legally be called “cheese” if it does not abide by the natural cheesemaking process; ergo, if it is processed as a combination of cheeses—with extra milk fat, oil, and water added during emulsification—then it is “processed cheese,” “cheese food,” or “cheese product.”

If individually wrapped, the determining of a cheese-based name is generally eschewed in favor of the term “singles.” Kraft is the originator of this custom, which requires the consumer to infer that the product is “cheese” due to prior awareness of the brand and, occasionally, a little picture of a familiar yellowish wedge that is “definitely not cheese,” or a glass of spilling white liquid that could possibly be misinterpreted by the consumer as “milk” but is “definitely not milk.”

Kraft nowadays evades the question of “milk” and “cheese” altogether when discussing their non-dairy dairy products, which are curiously found in the dairy aisle at your local grocery store, rather than in the non-dairy aisle, which is any aisle except the dairy aisle. Prior to 1992, Kraft had brazenly been promoting each of their ¾ ounce singles as containing “five ounces of milk” as well as the “same amount of calcium as five ounces of milk,” so as to argue that singles were as healthy as natural cheese and much healthy than other imitation cheeses, which are primarily vegetable oil and water. Well, that wasn’t at all true.

The FDA will bring the ban-hammer down upon a “cheese” manufacturer if they make any presumptuous cheese-based claims. For instance, Kraft once tried calling their singles “Pasteurized Processed Cheese Food,” but the FDA threatened sanctions against them since singles contained no milk protein concentrates and thus they did not qualify as “food.” Kraft conceded in 2002, settling on the label “Pasteurized Prepared Cheese Product.”

Now when you go to a store, and you see an yellowy loaf of cheese-like non-cheese in a five-pound box that says “Kraft Velveeta Original Loaf,” I want you to really think about what it is you’re looking at, because it is not cheese. In fact, if you squint, you might see the deceptive orange-yellow lettering against the yellow-orange background that quietly suggests you’re holding a “pasteurized prepared cheese product.” Yummy. That’ll help your bones grow.

We must remember, though, there is somewhat of a difference between “American” and “processed” cheeses. If the cheesemaking process is a combination of curds without the addition of various oils and milk fats and water (to thin and corrupt the natural dairy, so as to save money — like a cocaine dealer who cuts the good stuff with 70% bunk. “I ain’t tryna rip a woolie or crush a snow seal and get blasted off my ass, Nelson, so quit the monkeyshines and gimme that real snow”) then it can be considered “true American cheese.”

As early as 1790, the British were importing “American cheese” from their former colonies across the pond. Back then, we Americans called it “store cheese,” which makes me wonder if no other kinds of cheese were sold until the late nineteenth century. In 1860, Charles Dickens wrote about American cheese. Why? I, uh… because he could? I don’t know. He was Dickens. He could write about cheese and people would read it.

In the 1890s, the production of American cheese was industrialized, resulting in the designation “factory cheese.” It was some two decades later when an unhappy Canadian decided to build a legacy on the adage: “you can take the cheese out of the factory but you can’t take the factory out of the cheese.”

Click here to read: This Chicago Startup is about to Disrupt the Cheese Industry

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J.L. Kraft was born in Ontario, in 1874. He emigrated to Buffalo in 1902 and incorporated the Shefford Cheese Company with a few buddies. They forced him out—because he was so cool and they were all jealous—and he said, “Fine! If you’re not gonna let me play with you then I’m gonna start my own cheese company and it’s gonna be better than yours!” and he relocated to Chicago, where he sold cheese out the back of a horse-drawn wagon.

He went door-to-door, selling cheese, for a year. He lost $3,000 and a horse.

His four brothers joined him in America in 1909 and, five years later, they formed the J.L. Kraft & Bros. Company. After tinkering around with dairy by-products, emulsifiers, vegetable oils, salt, and food coloring, the Kraft brothers opened their first manufacturing plant in Stockton, Illinois, where J.L. put to the test his “patented, new ‘cheese’ formula! It never spoils! It never sullies! No refrigeration required! Order it to Oregon and it’ll arrive in six weeks, fresher than ever! Fresher than the moment it came out of the cow—which is, of course, an allegory! But our ‘cheese product’ is very much designed in the image of dairy, and that’s for certain!”

By 1916, J.L. was buying other food companies, cheapening their manufacturing process, and distributing everywhere across North America. He sold six million pounds of cheese product to the U.S. Army for military rations in the First World War. These rations came in little tins, whereas the grocer’s version came in blocks. After the innovations of the Second World War, this ‘processed cheese product’ came in pressurized cans, and—in 1950—individual slices, separated by wax paper or wrapped.

It was the first consumer-friendly, mass-marketed, shelf-stable, singly-sliced, processed cheese substitute, and Americans fucking loved it. Housewives scooped it up in their grocery carts and husbands slapped those babies on every slab of meat that hit the grill. Not only did it heat evenly, but it didn’t coagulate (because it wasn’t real) and it was CHEAP.

Of course, Kraft’s competitors (traditional cheesemakers) fought to force Kraft and the like to label their produce as “embalmed cheese,” but the FDA was lax in that era. Kids ate lead paint and drank oil. It was a different time; a better time, when Americans could be AMERICANS.

J.L. Kraft ran his cheese-inspired conglomerate until he died of a heart attack in 1953. Legend says he ate too much of his own product, which included Velveeta (not-cheese since 1928) and Miracle Whip (not-mayonnaise since 1933). From 1924 to 2015, Kraft Foods Inc. grew to service 170 countries with almost just as many unique brands (forty of which have been around for over a century) including Nabisco, Oscar Mayer, Philadelphia, A1, Trident, Maxwell House, Cadbury, Nilla, Ritz, Triscuit, Wheat Thins, Lunchables, Kool-Aid, Jell-O, Tang, Stove Top, Shake ‘n Bake, Capri Sun, Cool Whip, Crystal Light, and Easy Cheese.

In 2015, Kraft Foods Inc. split itself in half, forming Mondelēz International for their snackies and Kraft Foods Group Inc. for their more food-like items, meaning Mondelēz is more of the spiritual successor to Kraft than Kraft is. (Mondelēz isn’t even a real word. Some employees smashed the Latin word mundus (meaning ‘world’) with delez, which is apparently a “cool” way of saying “delicious,” but that’s just a crock of shit.)

Kraft Foods Group Inc. merged with Heinz in 2015 and now some old guy in Nebraska owns over 26% of the world's fifth-largest food and beverage company. (For the curious, Heinz was formed by Henry J. Heinz and his four brothers—all being German immigrants who found their way to Pittsburgh. In 1869, they tried making horseradish popular. It didn’t work. They tried again in 1876 with a new company that made ketchup. You're probably aware of how that turned out.)

(Also, let's set the record straight about these so-called “57 varieties” of ketchup. There's one variety, and it's ketchup. See, Monsignor Henry J. Heinz was riding the New York City subway in 1896 when he saw an advertisement for a store that claimed to have “21 styles” of shoes. He was bewitched by the ‘fascination' this advertisement had made him feel, and he wanted other people to feel the same way about his ketchup. He chose the number 50, because it's a sizeable amount, and he chose to add 7 since it’s a random qualifier for 50. Most people—when they exaggerate—will pick square numbers; Henry J. chose a specific number to make people think it was legitimate. In particular, Heinz said that the number 7 had a “psychological influence” on “people of all ages.” Yeah, Henry. Sure. We can say that. But we can say all sorts of things.)

While Heinz has an incredible legacy in the condiment, pickle, and potato industry, we’re not here to talk about those, are we? We’re Americans, damn it! And we want to talk about processed cheese! The best damn substitute for natural cheese there is!

It’s mild! It’s orange! It’s somewhat rubbery! It doesn't need refrigeration and, frankly, it wasn't going to ask for it! It's independent! It's pugnacious! But it’ll flop when the heat’s on, and it’ll cling to anything that gives it attention!

It spent its adolescence in a factory! It spent most of its life upon a shelf, waiting for a purpose! It's kept from death only by a precise allotment of chemicals! And it's controlled by the government, whether it likes it or not!

It's processed cheese, goddamn it, and it's as American as you and me!