My father went to North Holland for a week, to walk along the beach, to visit Egmond (where he and my mother had their first real house), and to visit Alkmaar, where I was born. And in Alkmaar he bought what I call a real cheese. Old, ripe Edammer cheese. Red. Hard. Sharp. Delicious with a glass of port or on a slice of dark brown bread. He bought half a cheese for us to start with, and a whole cheese to keep for a while. And here’s what remains of the first half, accompanied by lesser cheeses, like Stilton, crottin de chèvre and a Basque cheese I forgot the name of:
Maybe I should attempt to do a painting of this cheese, it reminds me a lot of the 17th century Dutch paintings.