✍️ A Cathedral of Cheese

My pilgrimage to the soul of Parmigiano-Reggiano

Parmesan was the first cheese I ever craved.

I know now that what I ate in my youth was dusty and industrial: a distant cousin of the real thing. It was pre-grated and sold in a bright green shaker. But I couldn’t get enough of it. As a kid, I’d pour it onto the palm of my hand and then lick it off. I was teased for shaking it onto almost anything savory: hot dogs, fried chicken, rice, scrambled eggs, popcorn.

That’s me in the Cathedral (C. Valenti photo)

Fast-forward a few decades.

I’ve long since learned to love (not just crave) real Parmigiano-Reggiano. And even as a middle-aged man with little patience for ceremony, I still treat this cheese with a kind of ritual respect. I never slice it; I break it into small, uneven shards. It’s stored in my refrigerator neatly folded into a cloth towel, which is then placed inside a plastic bag.

All that explain why, on a recent trip to Emilia-Romagna, my first-ever stop in a caseificio felt like a pilgrimage.