Chris Roberts
My girlfriend, Abby, and I just moved here from Northern California, and our will to assimilate is strong. Somehow, after only three weeks in Madison, Abby is rapidly turning into a character from Fargo, lengthening her vowels and pronouncing bagels as “begels.” And in my own attempt to outwardly appear like I belong, I recently dropped by the Willy Street Co-op and picked up some fresh cheese curds, as if I totally know what cheese curds are and eat them all the time. The cashier didn’t suspect a thing.
We’ve been told there are a few essential Madison experiences — getting a burger at The Old Fashioned (check), drinking a six-pack of New Glarus Spotted Cow (double-check), and getting decked out in all red and screaming our faces off during a Wisconsin Badgers football game (rain check). We also keep hearing that cheese in Wisconsin is better across the board, and that we’d better get down on some cheese curds, or else. From my short time in Madison, I’ve developed the distinct impression that confusing cheese curds with mozzarella sticks would result in permanent banishment from the Midwest, or at least some horrible disciplinary ritual involving a badger.
For my own sake, but also in honor of Curdfest (rescheduled due to flooding for Sunday, Sept. 23), I’ve made it a priority to familiarize myself with these so-called curds. But, first, some background: I was a super-picky eater growing up. My childhood diet consisted of fruit, white rice and black olives. Some of my admittedly peculiar hang-ups have lingered into adulthood, like discriminating against certain foods with weird-sounding names. I’ve gotten over some big ones — squash, yogurt, yams — but, at 30 years old, I still can’t stomach the word meatloaf. I mean, meatloaf? Come on.
For me, “cheese curds” sounds like something nasty; they even have a gross origin story. As the (probably made-up) legend goes, a nomad traveling the desert accidentally created some primitive form of curds when he poured milk into a bag made from a calf’s stomach, and the milk curdled. Cheese curds, anyone?
Of course, I bring my own set of reference points into new culinary experiences. For instance, being served fried cheese curds for the first time at The Coopers Tavern reminded me of Popplers, a highly addictive fast-food snack depicted in Matt Groening’s animated TV series Futurama. The problem with Popplers was that they turned out to be undeveloped alien young; this association was only reinforced by the fact that a super-fresh curd squeaks when you bite into it.
Which raises a worthy point when considering the quality of any given curd: Texture is key. As I learned via the Interwebs, cheese curds are harvested before they fully become a firm block of cheddar. And as I experienced for myself, they’re chewy, springy, almost rubbery. When breaded and fried, the crust offers a satisfying contrast to the gooey cheese inside.
Despite my various food-related neuroses, I’ve discovered that cheese curds are delicious, whether they’re fried, baked or served unadorned. And that’s really saying something, coming from me, because I’ve never been much into eating raw cheese by itself. Suddenly, putting on 25 pounds this winter has become a real concern.
In the bigger picture, Abby and I have been stoked (we haven’t entirely dropped the West Coast dialect yet) to discover and sample something unique to the region. So much of our shared national culture is homogenized; you can find the same big box stores and chain restaurants in every city in America, from La Crosse to Los Angeles. So, it’s been refreshing to move across the country and discover food that we couldn’t find in California, food that is specific to the Midwest. We can already tell that when it comes to cheese, Wisconsin really does do it better.
Curdfest will feature seven celebrity chefs competing for awards. Festivities include live music, lawn games, a kids zone and, of course, a fried cheese curd eating competition.
Curdfest
Sept. 23; noon-5 pm; Breese Stevens Field
