This short story takes place on a recent evening after dinner, while I was getting ready to eat some strawberries for dessert. There was an open container of heavy cream in the fridge, so I figured I'd pour some over the strawberries. Since I had not used the cream in the past few days, I took the precaution of smelling the contents of the carton before using it, just to see if it had gone bad. And I am glad I did, because the cream had gone beyond bad; the smell that came out of the carton was so vile that it made me gag.
Wondering if perhaps a small rodent had crawled its way inside my fridge, then to the top shelf and into the cream carton, before drowning in dairy, I looked inside the container. There was no rodent, but I could see that the cream had developed a yellowy crust on the surface. A foul smelling, yellow, solid crust. I don't know what kind of bacteria had developed in there, but if bacteria could talk, I'm sure this one would have given its name to me in fluent French.
Of course, I was disappointed that the cream had gone bad, but also surprised, because there was still a good week left before the expiration date written on the carton. In addition to being smelly, the bacteria had invaded my cream too early, which meant that it was either illiterate or just plain rude.
I was about to throw the thing away, when a strange impulse made me decide to check the smell again, as if the experience hadn't been bad enough the first time. Despite its unpleasantness, there was something about the particular smell of this curdled cream that drew me to take one more whiff. That's when it hit me: my cream smelled exactly like a ripe Saint-Marcellin cheese. This changed my perspective completely on this container of cream gone bad.
For those of you who aren't amateurs of smelly French cheese, Saint-Marcellin is a soft, creamy cheese made from unpasteurized cow milk. This cheese is fairly small in size, and when ripe, its interior is runny. The more the cheese is aged, the runnier it gets.
Needless to say, the flavour of this cheese is very strong. Describing the flavour with words is impossible, but it definitely falls in the "acquired taste" category. If the smell of cheese could be ranked on a scale similar to the Scoville scale used for hot peppers, Saint-Marcellin would rank on that scale what the law enforcement grade pepper spray ranks on the Scoville scale. As a matter of fact, if all the cheese you have ever eaten came shredded in a plastic bag or melted on a hamburger patty, chances are that eating a piece of Saint-Marcellin will have the same effect on you as pepper spray.
Because it is made from unpasteurized milk, it cannot be exported everywhere on the planet. In the United States for instance, Saint-Marcellin is classified as a Level 2 Biohazard, and attempting to enter the country with it in your luggage is likely to get you rerouted to Guantanamo Bay. In some other countries, like Canada, where I live, this French delicacy can be legally imported and enjoyed, but it is quite expensive. I had not eaten Saint-Marcellin in quite some time, so once I got past the fact that the stench was coming out of a container of curdled cream, the odor actually became somewhat pleasant, giving me a sudden nostalgic craving for the traditional French gastronomy. My eyes began to water a little, not because of the aforementioned pepper spray effect, but because of the memories. The sweet, smelly memories.
Considering the price of Saint-Marcellin in Canada, I could have been sitting on a gold mine with my serendipitous discovery. All I needed was the assurance that I could repeat the transformation of regular table cream into an expensive imported cheese at will, and a trusting volunteer to taste the first batch. The volunteer was necessary to make sure that the final product tasted as good as it smelled, and that nothing toxic had developed inside, in addition to whatever bacterial culture the Saint-Marcellin is made with. After these insignificant hurdles were overcome, I would just buy lots of cream, and wait until my fridge magically turned it all into Saint-Marcellin before selling it at a high price to cheese gourmets.
After the delectable vapors of curdled cream subsided and my mind came out of its state of cheese-induced daydreaming stupor, I sadly decided to discard the contents of the carton in the kitchen sink. But I owe it to my French heritage to buy a Saint-Marcellin in the near future. Perhaps I'll eat it with a side of strawberries.
If you would like to apply to become a volunteer to taste my homemade Saint-Marcellin cheese, please post below.
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