Today was the day! The caves of Roquefort! The origin of the cheese with that marvelous bite. Seven producers, all in the village of Roquefort, are set above caves that penetrate into the rock. Our tour was with Société. Sorry, only a photo of the entrance is here. I snapped an old cave and then was informed it was forbidden, my French not good enough to understand that at the start. The caves provide the fungus, Penicillium roqueforti, for those
scientists out there, that is added to the region’s ewes’ milk. Each cave has a different strain of the fungus with different cheeses the result. My favorite—the creamy, wilder, and more expensive Baragnaude. The cheeses are cured in the constant, chilly caves, the Maître Affineur
deciding when each batch is done. What would it be like to have a job smelling and tasting Roquefort cheese through the day? Would one ever be hungry when dinner time came?
We returned just in time to have lunch. It was an incredible spread, but I’ve been eating too much. I miss being hungry, that edge, that push to search out. I know, your heart bleeds, but really it’s true. I had a just a taste and then swam a few laps.
Hunger—I’m not speaking of those starving who can’t get enough. But that uncomfortable void that has one up and out of the chair, going after stuff. For food, yes, but also learning to speak French or writing or whatever provides nourishment. This mama cat could have just lain in the sun. Instead, her hunger drove her to find a small
rodent for her kittens (no photo for that) and then let them drink milk.
And so I’m off to dinner, keen to sharpen it up, this hunger of mine.
