A child of the ‘80s, I come from a middle-class home where Parmesan was an immortal green can of savory sprinkles for my spaghetti. Our meals were always homemade, rarely fancy and certainly never expensive. This ethos made me an anomaly in my foodie hometown of Ann Arbor, where I didn’t step foot in Zingerman’s Delicatessen until I applied for a job in my mid-20s. Zingerman’s sold food that was fancy and expensive. As it turned out, Zingerman’s would change my life.
My cheese education began in the deli’s retail department, a cheerful but cramped labyrinth of profound sensory overload. The heady perfume of charcuterie garlands collided with the bracing, spore-saturated air of the cheese case, an olfactory assault softened by the warm waft of freshly baked bread. I became enamored with flavor; the peppery bite of new harvest olive oil, the crystalline umami of well-aged Parmigiano Reggiano, the floral fingerprint of a single-source honey. I also fell in love with Dave, the man who would become my husband.
You can read up to 3 premium stories before you subscribe to Magzter GOLD
Log in, if you are already a subscriber
Get unlimited access to thousands of curated premium stories, newspapers and 5,000+ magazines
READ THE ENTIRE ISSUE