Anatomy of a Cheese Board
In another life—a recent one, the one where I lived in my sunny little dream hovel on Cortelyou Road—I had a set of nosh-adjacent traditions for when my faraway friends came to spend a weekend in Brooklyn. Brunch at Farm on Adderley (salted chocolate bread and fries with curry mayo for the table). Drinks at Sycamore (gin gimlets or cold, dry glasses of lambrusco). Trips to Coney Island (hot dogs at Nathan’s and candy shop soft serve pistachio ice cream). More drinks at Coal Yard or Shayz Lounge (RIP….to….both?). Most importantly, I liked to have things waiting for them on my coffee table when they arrived: fresh cut flowers from the farmer’s market, and a cheese board.
My preoccupation with cheese boards is not unique: the form translates to perfect Instagram fodder, and the pleasure of catching up with people you love is heightened by simultaneously picking at crunchy, creamy, salty things. I credit a couple of sources for my fondness of this format. My aunt is such a master of her cheese board craft—her execution so flawless and satisfying every time—that she deceived me into believing hosting guests might be an easy, seamlessly curated task. As though a mere Mary Poppins snap of the fingers could summon an array of meats and cheeses and homemade hummus and tiny roasted potatoes with mustards and aiolis to dip in. The intricate setups that greeted us on holidays and visits were Instagram-worthy before such a thing existed.
An influential cheese board that changed my life belonged to a couple named Jenny and Aldo, who hosted a friend of mine at their home in Portland one summer. My friend and I were attending a nearby writing workshop. She had never met them before coming to stay with them—a vague friend’s cousin’s family friend sort of arrangement—but became quickly enamored of them and wanted me to experience their brand of hospitality she’d been raving about. Upon my arrival, I was disarmed by how welcome they made me feel—how they picked up a conversation with me as though they’d known me all my life. Within twenty minutes, we were perched in their backyard, tin cup Moscow Mules in hand, an elaborate spread of cheese and olives and chicken sausage just “thrown together” set in front of us. I knew, even then, the moment was a potent memory in the making. “I’m just so moved by your hospitality, and this beautiful spread,” I told them, perhaps too earnestly, feeling far from home. “Well alright,” Jenny said slowly, dragging on a cigarette before letting out a cackle. “Don’t cry about it, ya fuckin’ baby.”
When my friends come to visit me, this is the sensation I seek to emulate: easy familiarity, warm conversation, a respite from the mundane everyday stresses that plague us. The sort of way I may feel over a cheese board at my aunt’s house during a cozy holiday in Westchester or in a perfect stranger’s backyard during a summer dusk in Portland.
As we now begin to dip our smallest, most reluctant toe into the operations of a post-pandemic social life, I find myself unsure of how to behave around my friends—those people I adore and have missed every day we’ve been apart. When a pair of our closest friends came to visit this past weekend, I felt rusty when it came to curating an itinerary. But I got my bearings as I remembered the tried and true best place to start: the arrival cheese plate.
I know there are limitless resources online with scientific recommendations on exactly how cheese boards should be formulaically constructed, but I’m going to include my rather unscientific approach below:
The cheeses! I like 2 soft, 2-3 hard—a mix of crowd-pleasers and daring forays into funk. My ideal mix: a sweet goat log (something crusted in blueberries or mixed with honey), a gamey blue (the grosser, the better), an aged-to-the-point-of-developing-lactate-crystals gouda or cheddar (crunchy!), a manchego wedge (who doesn’t love this?), and maybe a fun grab bag weirdo cheese (something Wegmans is running on special? A truffle or port wine infused situation? Pimento cheese? I’m down for any + all).
The meats! I’m always inevitably having some kind of aversion to meat, so depending on how I feel, I’ll include 2-4 sliced options. Always thin sliced chorizo + thick sliced pepperoni. I’m kind of over prosciutto, but maybe if the mood strikes? I wish I could say fuck it to convention so I could serve my one true cold cut love: olive loaf.
The crackers! My taste in cheese vehicle hasn’t evolved since my parents hosted Thanksgiving in 1989. Carr’s brand whole wheat crackers + Carr’s brand water crackers. No substitutions will do.
The fruits! Red pears because buying them makes me feel like I live in a Renaissance painting. Red grapes because they fill the gaps on the board and they’re easy to prep.
The olives! I’d go 2-3 here, as well, I aim for pitted varieties wherever possible (is this considered declasse? I don’t know, I just don’t want everyone’s spitty discard on my table, we’re in a pandemic). Lately, I like buttery Castelvetrano olives, Spanish olives tossed in chili oil or a lemon garlic blend, and giant black olives from the can (ok, you caught me, I am declasse).
The nuts! Marcona almonds, either rosemary or plain sea salt flavor (my husband put me onto these early into our courtship and I’ve since become a devotee), and a candied pecan situation could be fun.
The extras! I love these plus ups: cornichons, fig jam, hot honey, pita or salted cucumber slices with hummus to dip, hot sliced chicken sausage with dijon mustard to dip, tiny roasted potatoes with garlic aioli to dip. Also: a surprising number of great vegan cheese alternatives are available depending on you/your guests’ needs—but could be cool to include, regardless!
When our friends arrived this weekend, I considered how everything surrounding us has changed since the last time we could all safely spend quality time together indoors. We live in an apartment they’ve never seen before, in a city 50 miles away from our beloved Brooklyn stomping grounds, and we’re about to move into the house we recently bought. They’re preparing to leave their vast community in Boston to put down roots in Southern California by summer’s end. We’re all suffering otherworldly stress—between work pressures, wedding planning, moving logistics, and general grief over the past year—and dealing with it as best as we can, albeit with pandemic-limited access to the friends and support systems we’d once relied so heavily upon. But sitting around the cheese board (a custom engraved one they bought us as a wedding gift!), the wicked ways of the world seemed distant and manageable—nonexistent, even.
