Scary Dairy Story Contest
Good Evening! It's time again for culture's annual Scary Dairy contest.
The rules are simple: spin a spooky cheese-centric tale of terror in the comment thread below. 500 words or less, please. The best tale will win a bag of cheesy Halloween tricks & treats. We will pick a winner Nov. 4.
Need inspiration? Check out last year's blood curdling tales of ghostly milk murders, evil sheep, dairy zombies, and of course, the horrifying Stuff-like cheese of last year's winning entry: here, here, here, and here, and then post your own below!
(Make sure you sign into the website with your email address—we need to be able to contact you if you win!)
This year's judge is Patricia Coleman, the winner of last year's contest:
"Patricia Coleman lives in Sunset Park Brooklyn, which means she gets to eat fresh mozzarella and locatelli from the old Italian grocers, Collucio's and Son's, as often as she likes, or go and get her other favorite Pont l'Eveque in the franco-fanatic Boerum Hill side of Brooklyn (better known as Smith Street). Nothing compares to the cheeses she won in the Culture Contest last year. Less relevantly, she is a writer director and PhD candidate in Theatre, specializing in the avant-garde."
Contest Winner??
Hey Culture!
Just wondering the results of the Halloween contest?? I didn't see any threads on FB about it. Did I miss it?
Thanks!!
Hands-On Cheesemaking
I have used animal rennet in making my famous (well, amongst my family and friends) mozzarella, and have used vegetable rennet. I have no preference, but perhaps my preference should have been vegetable...
Unbeknownst to amateur cheesemakers, rennet was being extracted from calves used in an experiment to develop a vaccine for bovine spongiform encephalopathy, also known as Mad Cow Disease. In these experiments, the cows were given Mad Cow Disease in small doses in order to create an immunity, which would then be extracted and used to create a vaccine. Unfortunately, immunity was never found. Dr. Fromage, a world-renowned scientist, was working at his lab on a Halloween night and discovered that the disease mutated chromosomes of the cows. Afraid that he would lose his funding for research, he didn't tell anybody about his findings. The experimental cows had calves, which were used for rennet extraction.
Of course, this was a hidden secret by Dr. Fromage, who wasn't sure what the consequences would be. Rennet developers had purchased these cows very cheaply. And I didn't know any of this when rennet entered a small cut on my hand when I made mozzarella on a stormy October 30th. My hand itched, but I thought nothing of it. I stretched and kneaded my warm mozzarella, and was captivated at what was my best batch ever. My hand was now burning, but I thought it's because I had gotten some salt or citric acid in my wound, too.
I woke up the next morning, excited about my favourite holiday--Halloween. I was planning on giving trick-or-treaters that I knew a small mozzarella ball with an olive--ghosts' eyeballs, woooooo! Spooky! But when I looked down, my hand had developed holes... no, not holes. Why, they were eyes of cheese! It smelled of Swiss, and I fainted at the sight of my cheese hand.
When I woke up, my head was resting on my cheese hand. This was real! As I touched it to determine its rubbery texture, it fell off my body. I fainted again. When I woke up and found the cheese next to me, I decided to do what any cheese lover would do--wrap it up and put it in my refrigerator.
I kept my hand wrapped and told people that it was a freak cheesemaking accident that gave me a slight wound. This slight "wound" then led to a serious infection of my hand that required amputation. I hope they never look in my fridge, because they will find a hand-shaped (literally, hand-shaped) slab of Swiss that oddly enough, never decreases in size. I am proud to say that not only do I make a great mozzarella, but I make a great Swiss as well.
To the trick or treaters who came to my house... I hope you enjoyed my homemade cheese. I put my heart, soul, and body into it!
Ewww really eww, the art of
Ewww really eww, the art of cheese demands sacrifices, I guess--which ones though? Poor Cows or cheese-makers' limbs?
I suppose all married couples
I suppose all married couples have secrets. For instance, my wife, Gretchen, has a lot of secrets. Like how she’s started smoking again, sneaking a cigarette at the bus stop as she waits for her ride to Provoleta & Danbo, the law office where she works as a paralegal. She’s also keeping a secret about her boss, Colby Burrata. They struck up an affair about five months ago, and on the nights that she claims to be working late, she’s actually in his office, making love on the couch, on his desk, or even up against the wall amid his ergonomically correct, Swiss-style furniture. She comes home on these nights slightly heady, skirt wrinkled, hair rumpled, and prepares dinner, humming a Brie Larson song under her breath as she stirs the pot.
Gretchen is keeping a very big secret at the moment. She’s just found out she’s pregnant, and considering I had a vasectomy three years ago when we decided we didn’t want children, this is a bit of a problem. She can’t bring herself to tell me, and doesn’t want to try and pass it off as the result of a faulty snip job, because at least—to her credit—she thinks I’m too smart for that. So her only option, she believes, is to get rid of me.
Gretchen purchased some ground glass from an arts and crafts store, which she plans to mix in to the cheddar fondue she will serve me tonight. She bought some Italian bread and some cauliflower for dipping; she will tell me she can’t indulge in this treat because she’s lactose intolerant. She plans to bring me to a hospital once I am too far along to save; she will then collect on my life insurance, move a few towns over, and start her new life with Colby.
What my wife does not know is that I have a few secrets of my own.
For instance, I wasn’t completely honest with Gretchen about how my first wife died. I told her she accidentally drowned in the bathtub, which wasn’t entirely true. The accident part, anyway. And I know Gretchen is planning on relaxing in a steamy bath tonight just before dinner.
My other secret is that I can read minds.
I was wondering how the
I was wondering how the narrator could be so resigned to his fate, now I see he has his own unfair advantage, but I suspect the wife would win, since fondue is so much more seductive than a bath
Cheese-centric Story
I am a cheese monger for a local grocery store here in Utah Harmon's and this is a true story. I had gotten out of bed early as i always do and gone through the usual routine shower shave and off to the second love in my love cheese. some how the day had this haunting feeling i pushed it aside and continued on with my day bent oin getting a taste of the delicious new cheese coming in from beehive. i hadn't much more than started cutting the new cheeses i received when the local high school just a few blocks away sent its onslaught of teen age boys full of hormones hungry for lunch rampaging in the store. i began slicing off sample pieces as fast as my planer would go. when i heard a ruckus behind kids laughing like always but this had an almost eerie feeling as i turned to see what the excitement was a young man hand proved his manhood buy hefting a full wheel of parmigiano reggiano when all of the sudden it slipped from his hand smashed to the floor and cracked spewing it's precious golden goodness like a over drunk teen at a kager my heart almost exploded my stomache grew ill as these cheese haters walked off leaving my poor friend in pieces it still makes my skin crawl
Culture shock
My friends and I have a somewhat unique weekend hobby- we are medievalists. On weekends, we get dressed up in costume from different periods and cultures from between 500AD and the 1500's. One couple I know chose the Mongol culture and is particularly careful to be as authentic with their garb and other details as possible. As a result, the husband decided he would try to make his own koumis. Koumis is a beverage made by the process of fermenting horse's milk until you get a beverage that is somewhat similar to beer. It needs to be shaken regularly to churn it, and there is apparently a fine line between how much will give you koumis and how much will result in chunky, fermented yogurt.
My friend had managed to acquire some mare's milk from someone we knew, and proceeded to make a few batches in bottles. Things seemed to proceeding alright, and one Sunday he sat down in the living room to agitate one of the bottles. His wife was in the bedroom on the phone, when she heard a rather loud, hollow "pop." She nearly dropped the phone when she went to investigate. There, on the couch, was her husband... covered in koumis. There were chunks of partially fermented milk in his hair, on his shoulders, on the wall behind him, the couch, even the ceiling. It was everywhere. Curds were on the curtains, fluid on the floor, dairy on the door... it was EVERYWHERE. It was lucky for him it was so ridiculous, otherwise she might have killed him. She left the room, holding her sides from laughing, with a giggled, "You're cleaning this up yourself."
What a horrifying sight, ol'
What a horrifying sight, ol' koumised hubby!
Slow Grill
Slow Grill
Late-autumn Bridgewater was as Brian remembered—wisps of fog swirled the leafless oaks; the town green’s war cannon loomed in the mist. He drove past the cemetery, dreading that their destination—his soon-to-be-ex-wife Marva’s gourmet cheese shop—was just beyond.
His massively-pregnant fiancé, Rosie, shifted. “I need a bathroom.”
“We’re almost there.”
The thought of the store, its cheddar-woodchip smell, Marva’s commanding presence, made him queasy. But visiting was necessary—the divorce papers needed signing so he and Rosie could start a new life.
Rosie grimaced.
He patted her hand. “You should’ve stayed home.”
“And leave you alone with her?”
Rosie’s tone annoyed him—yes, it was over, but he’d loved Marva once.
“No way. You said she was manipulative.”
True. But what he hadn’t shared was how he’d left, the guilt—he’d taken off in the night; he’d stone-walled Marva’s broken-hearted pleas. He hadn’t wanted Rosie to think, especially with their arriving son, he might do the same to her. “It’ll be fine.”
After all, when he’d called, Marva’d been charming, almost…warm.
The shop occupied a troubled-looking Victorian, a funeral home until the cemetery had filled. A sign proclaimed CONNECTICUT MAGAZINE BEST-OF WINNER.
“Impressive,” Rosie said.
Brian nodded. “Best cheeses, recipes anywhere. Any county fair, she won.”
They ascended the porch. The screen door squealed open.
Marva was still statuesque, lithe; Brian was only surprised by an unfamiliar current in her dark eyes. Just get this done, he thought.
Marva smiled. “The bathroom’s in the back.”
Rosie hustled.
Inside, the smell of grilling cheese and blueberries.
“You’ve been busy,” Marva seized a pen. “When’s she due?”
Her calm candor shocked him. “Two weeks.”
“Papers.”
Relieved, he handed them over. “I’m sorry. For everything.”
She blinked, made a dismissive gesture, then shuffled through them. “No apologies. All’s forgiven.”
He didn’t know how to respond. The only sound was her pen, scratching.
“It smells great,” he said.
“I’m grilling Raclette. It takes time to melt, but it’s nearly finished.”
He noticed a new door; through it, a garden where once there’d been woods.
“Gardening, huh?”
“The doctor suggested growing things would help my stress levels.”
Rosie emerged. “Much better.”
Marva returned the papers.
Brian shrugged. “I guess that’s it.”
“The Raclette’s done. Won’t you stay?”
Brian was tempted—he hadn’t eaten.
“I am hungry.” Rosie, whose mistrust had seemingly vanished, nodded sheepishly toward the bathroom. “Besides, lately it always feels like I’m never quite done.”
“Wonderful.” Marva swept to the bay window overlooking the cemetery, pulled two chairs from under a small table. “Sit.”
She served potatoes, drizzled cheese, twisted the pepper mill with relish.
Brian’s first bite filled him with nostalgia; Rosie, munching, seemed pleased.
And then he felt flush, nauseous, breathless. Marva was suddenly ravishing; Rosie, suddenly, hag-esque. He eked: “What did you do?”
“I told you.” Marva’s voice sounded far away. “Growing things, especially deadly nightshade, has really helped my stress levels.”
It was the last thing he heard before everything went foggy, misty, and then black.
I think I'd be willing to die
I think I'd be willing to die to eat that Raclette!
A Cheesemaker's worst Nightmare!
Tanya had no idea how long she had been confined to the lab. A tinge of pain rumbled through her stomach. Just ignore it, she snapped to herself, there’s no time to eat now. She pressed the firm surface of her glasses back on the microscope to peer through the twin portholes.
"Something is wrong here, very wrong!"
Just before her hunger pain had a chance to turn into a pummeling wave of panic, Simon burst through the door.
“Hello beautiful! I brought your favorite sandwich: Camembert, ham, arugula and caramelized onion ciabatta drizzled with olive oil. You must be hungry by now.”
Tanya grabbed Simon’s arm and wrenched him toward the microscope where the sandwich bag fell limp on the table.
“How could you even think about food? Look at this!”
Simon’s head was forcefully wedged between the cold metal rims of the microscope and Tanya’s warm hand. “What am I looking at?”
Tanya didn’t know if she had an answer that made sense, “The mold! You are looking at the mold, but - I don’t know why it looks like that.”
She had tested more samples than she could remember. The curds were perfect until day three, then the cheese turned into a bubbling, putrid goo. The mold was overactive, breaking down the proteins and fat faster than she had ever witnessed. Her family's business was at stake. Suddenly their fifty-year-old recipe wasn’t working, and Tanya was certain the key was the Penicillium candidum.
Simon’s specialty was using cheese in the kitchen. He worked at his father’s café where he met Tanya when she came to sell them her cheese. There was an instant attraction – to the cheese too. He loved the creamy center of the cheese (endearingly named Little “T”). The paste spread like whipped cream reaching deep into the crevices of his rustic breads, and the rind was like thin parchment that added a snap of texture before dissolving with a final buzz to his tongue. It was painful to think that whatever was happening to the cheese could be the end of a culinary love affair.
“You’ll figure it out ‘T’, but first eat. You might be smart, but your body could use the energy.” Simon’s voice was soothing, just enough to cause Tanya to melt into his shoulders like a chunk of Raclette. After a good sob, she was ready to give her favorite sandwich a try. As the pair moved closer to the table, a horrific smell assaulted their nostrils.
“I’ve NEVER smelled anything like that!” Tanya exclaimed.
“I used a wheel of cheese you sold me last week, before any of the wheels you have now started oozing stink! That cheese was fine earlier today.”
Tanya prepared a new slide. She watched the ravenous spores destroy each other, but it was what happened next that truly frightened her. The dead spores slowly started moving again, hungry for the living. Tanya frightfully turned toward Simon to scream the answer, “ZOMBIE CHEESE!!!”
Cheese eating itself, Nice!
Cheese eating itself, Nice!
It began as a slow, crisp
It began as a slow, crisp morning on the boulevard. I passed the first of the java-hounds trudging to their respective coffee houses, eyed the morning sun rising lazily over the skyline, and turned the key to my shop. The pungent scent of my wares helped wake me. I anticipated slow traffic today - Halloween called more for Absolut than Abbaye de Belloc. But one never knew, right?
The bell above the door gave it's jaunty tinkle and a few regulars strolled in for their morning Rondo and baguette. As we chatted pleasantries they mentioned it was supposed to be a hot one today. I disagreed, considering the chill of the morning, and they shrugged, said goodbye and went on their way. Little did I know.
Later in the day, the Appalachian was looking a little peaked so I set to cleaning it. As I busied myself my little bell went off again. I felt a rush of hot, stagnant air blow through the door and saw to my horror a dead-eyed guest I'd had a couple days ago. In her hands was a melting round of St. Pat.
"This cheese is covered in green mold," she said thickly, "You sold me moldy cheese."
"No no!" I cried. "I told you - those are nettles. Not mold. Totally edible and delicious!" I backed away from the counter as she advanced, her sallow skin stretched over her sunken face...those eyes...sick yellow eyes..
"REFUND!" She roared suddenly. I was about to protest when someone else stumbled through my door.
"This Brie de Meaux smells like feet! It's gone bad! You sold me bad cheese!" The poor Brie was melting through his fingers, bleeding its goodness all over my floor.
"No!" I yelled back, "It smells the way Brie is supposed to! I'm telling you, if you just try it!"
"BAD cheese!" He bellowed, with the same sick eyes. Now I was starting to get angry.
"If you wanted flavorless brie you should have gone to VONS!" I spat at him. This stunned them briefly. They stood with their perfectly good cheeses, ruining in whatever alien heat had spread through the city, and then the door opened yet again, and a chunk of Boschetto al Tartufo flew past my head.
"RUDE!" I shouted.
"Bugs in my CHEESE!" Was the response. Another pair of dead eyes and another sunken face.
"What's wrong with you people? Those are truffles! Black truffles! Don't you remember? You were going to shave it over risotto!" And suddenly they were everywhere.
"Black mold in my Pepato!"
"Holes in my Caveman Blue! Someone pierced it!"
"The Mimolette has MITES!"
"Why is there dirt in the middle of my Morbier?!"
"BAD CHEESE! BAD CHEESE! REFUND! REFUND!" They began to chant together. I covered my ears and sunk to the floor, about to concede...but no. God no. I didn't come this far, by God. These people, zombified or not, would appreciate my damn cheese. I took a deep breath, stood, and -
I woke up.
Later that Halloween day, at work in my shop, wary every time the bell tinkled, a woman came in with a lump of Red Hawk.
"Excuse me, but I bought this yesterday without trying it. I took it home and unwrapped it and it smells foul. I think it went bad. Can I get a refund?"
I took the cheese from her, and bid her wait just one minute. I toasted a piece of batard and sliced some membrillo. I smeared the cheese and paste together on the warm bread, took a half for myself and proffered the other to her. I calmly explained the effect of brine wash on cheese, and we tried it together. She was hesitant, but as that bite sank in and the flavors melded, she looked at me with bright, new eyes. I sent her home with her Red Hawk and some Ardrahan, and a fresh outlook on cheese. There is hope after all.
(This story is based on actual customer complaints. Happy Halloween.)
Great twist on the implied
Great twist on the implied horrors of retail!
Nothing like a true-life
Nothing like a true-life horror to chill the blood. Wow.
The Cheesemonger....
She was so very happy when she noticed the new cheese shop that had opened in her quaint little neighbourhood while out doing her weekly shopping. She popped in on the first crisp, fall Saturday they opened and through the crush of customers (seems everyone wanted good cheese around here..), she couldn't help but be entranced by the tall, dark haired, handsome cheese monger behind the counter. He charmed the customers and flew about the counter serving everyone tastes of cheese. He even caught her eye and gave her a wink! She was too shy and flustered to actually speak to him about cheese, so she gazed down in the displays at the lovely wheels of downy soft Brie, the brilliant white of the goat cheeses with ash and the oozy, pungent Époisses she loved so well.
She continued each Saturday to wander, even threw the leaves and windy chill, into his store to silently worship his cheese and try to catch his eye in the busy shop. Each week, too shy to approach him, she left empty handed.
The following week, continuing her ritual, she was caught by surprise, to look up from staring at a perfect piece of mimolette, to find him standing beside her. He offered a crumbly chunk of Beemster XO and she knew she was in love.
He asked to see her that night. She had no superstition about 'devils night'. That was for children and old wives tales. She carved no pumpkins, she didn't believe in ghosts. She agreed. And blushed at herself for being so smitten with him.
At exactly 10pm he rang her doorbell. There on her stoop, he stood, black jacket, dark hair falling over his brow and in his extended hands a heart shaped Neufchâtel for her. She invited him in and as his heavy boots crossed through her doorway, a cold shiver went up her spine. She turned to see his twinkling eyes, wide smile and razor sharp fangs. She gasped! He opened his arms to embrace her and as the quick sting of pain bit into her neck she thought - "I'll have eternity to try every cheese".
msforksandknives
A bit o' gothic romance in
A bit o' gothic romance in this one. "Interview with a Monger"?
Ultimate Halloween Horror
There was a bit of foreshadowing in the air as Annie, a cheese enthusiast, stepped out the door on Monday, October 31. It was early, the sky was still dark and overcast; the wind had begun to howl a bit. It would be a cold, possibly snowy, Halloween, but Annie was still cheerful. She had been invited to a Halloween potluck, which she hoped would include some delicious dairy goodies.
By party time, the sky was completely dark, the wind was even brisker, and a few flakes of snow were hitting the ground. As she shivered her way to the party, she realized she was starving. In all her gastronomic ruminations, she had forgotten to eat today.
After a round of hello hugs and kisses at the party, Annie set down her own contribution, a variety of homemade pickles from her summer garden. Consumed by hunger, she grabbed the biggest plate she could find and hit the buffet table. She was, to be honest, a disappointed: lots of bags of chips, pre-fab dips, a few cheap pizzas cut into appetizer portions, and the hard kind of cookies found in plastic trays.
She sighed, and helped herself to some promising looking 7-layer dip and a couple pigs in blankets. Good, but not what she was craving. Where was the cheese plate? She had been tempted to bring one herself, but her cousin really wanted those pickles and Annie knew she couldn’t let Theresa down. Besides, she was nearly broke, as her own cheese habit was eating into her discretionary spending.
But then, a ray of hope: tucked into a corner was a little savory cheesecake, topped with some fresh salsa and surrounded by decent bread. “Finally,” she thought, “someone gets it!” She asked around, but no one seemed to know who had made it or exactly what it was. It looked a tad too orange for her taste, but she would forgive that for a mouthful of cheddar and cream cheese or maybe even goat’s milk cheese. She helped herself to a generous portion and sat down to chow.
The 7-layer dip was better than expected, the pigs in blankets were a bit doughy, but she mostly wanted to get to the savory cheesecake. What a find! What a great idea! As she raved in her head, she spread a thick schmear on her bread. As shoveled the gooey concoction into her mouth, her taste buds realized her ultimate Halloween nightmare had come true…processed cheese product had passed her lips. The horror! The agony!
Having learned a lesson about depending on others, Annie slunk into the night, prowling the streets, trying to find some place, ANY place, selling a simple farmhouse cheddar. Perhaps on November 1, but for Annie, there would be a long, long cheeseless night.
Heather Torrence Mattson
Eat Montana
eatmontana@gmail.com
I know the pain of the
I know the pain of the Halloween buffet table: just because it's a "kids holiday" doesn't mean you have to serve junk. Another true-life tale?
A Cheesy Halloween Story
“Michael, is that you?”
“I know you’re mad at me, Michael, but I had to tell Mama you left the backdoor open again. You know I’m afraid the man in the moon will send his cheddar werewolf to sneak into the house and eat me like a Philly Cheesesteak.”
“Michael, is that you?”
“Michael, I’m sorry Momma tanned your hide because I tattled, but you gotta stop howling like a werewolf. And that smells more like limburger than cheddar. You know I’ll tell Mama you’re scaring me again.”
“Michael, is that you?”
“Michael, you just stop screaming like a werewolf is eating you. You know Mama’s just going whup you again for scaring me. And then she’ll whup you again for eating Daddy’s smoked Gouda. I may be in a locked room under the bed, but I can still smell.
“Michael, is that you?”
“I’m not kidding, Michael. You stop growling and clawing at my door. I am telling Mama as soon as she gets home. And if that’s melted cheddar oozing under the door, she’s going to whup you for what you did to the rug. ”
“Michael, please tell me that’s you.”
You set a very high bar for
You set a very high bar for the first tale: suspenseful, funny and horrifying.
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