Knekkebrødpause! My ode to Norwegian brown cheese
I seldom let a day pass without being thankful for having lived in Norway. I spent two years there in a boarding school in the Western hamlet of Flekke, which, in 2010 the Norwegian Geological Survey declared no longer existing. I assure you, it's very real, although very small. Life in rural Norway is very simple, not polluted by urban fads or trends. The food shares the same traits. Norwegian cuisine usually consists of simple meals, with fish, vegetables and boiled potatoes, uncomplicated by excessive seasoning. It's quite healthy, and surprisingly tasty. Perhaps not too many of my classmates would agree with this statement, but I genuinely found Norwegian food quite tasty. Dishes such as lapskaus, a veggie version of which is featured here on the blog, are ones that strike up a good deal of Norskstalgia for me.
Another favourite that we enjoyed was brunost, or brown cheese, a sweeter-than-usual cheese comprising of goat's milk, (sometimes) cow's milk, whey and cream. Brunost, and its delightfully simple, creamy taste is the subject of this post. I write in praise of brunost, and everything it stands for - simplicity, deliciousness, and Norwegian-ness. Writer Rebecca Dinerstein must have been thinking along the same lines when she wrote this article in the New Yorker entitled 'An Ode to Norwegian Brown Cheese', an article dedicated to the awareness of brown-cheese-awesomeness. I'd recommend a read if you're a fan of the stuff.
If you've never tried brunost before, head down to a specialty cheesemonger, or if you're in the US, to Whole Foods, and pick up a little block of it. "But what will I do with it?" I hear you cry. Allow me to explain.
In our school kantina, few people woke up early enough to enjoy breakfast. But everyone (and I mean everyone) came to knekkebrødpause, which was wrongly translated to 'cookie break', a 15-minute period of rushed eating, where we gulped down whatever caffeine we could find and would devour not cookies, but knekkebrød, or crispbread as it's known in English. To accompany the knekkebrød, we had a choice of jams and butter, along with mild white cheese, and brunost. My favourite combination would be dark knekkebrød and brunost, topped with a little spoonful of either raspberry or blueberry jam. Imagine my joy when three years later I assembled one of these bad boys in my dorm room. Enjoy responsibly, any time of the morgen, dag or, kveld!
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| A cheek-to-cheek smile spread across my face as I discovered this beautiful baby while grocery shopping |
If you've never tried brunost before, head down to a specialty cheesemonger, or if you're in the US, to Whole Foods, and pick up a little block of it. "But what will I do with it?" I hear you cry. Allow me to explain.
In our school kantina, few people woke up early enough to enjoy breakfast. But everyone (and I mean everyone) came to knekkebrødpause, which was wrongly translated to 'cookie break', a 15-minute period of rushed eating, where we gulped down whatever caffeine we could find and would devour not cookies, but knekkebrød, or crispbread as it's known in English. To accompany the knekkebrød, we had a choice of jams and butter, along with mild white cheese, and brunost. My favourite combination would be dark knekkebrød and brunost, topped with a little spoonful of either raspberry or blueberry jam. Imagine my joy when three years later I assembled one of these bad boys in my dorm room. Enjoy responsibly, any time of the morgen, dag or, kveld!
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| A delicious blast from the past! Wild blueberry jam atop brunost and knekkebrød |
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