Tasia’s Table. Tasia Malakasis

      I vividly remember the first time I saw Tasia Malakasis. It was a beautiful spring day and my company, Alabama Chanin, was hosting our annual picnic on the banks of the river that runs through our little town of Florence— Alabama, not Italy. Tasia walked up with a group of friends and a basket roughly twice her size full of cheeses and delicacies— all strikingly beautiful. Our community picnic and potluck was in full swing and there were incredible homemade dishes displayed down a long serving table. Tasia added her bounty and came over to introduce herself. We have been friends ever since.

      I would like to say that I got my first taste of Chèvre de Provence (goat-cheese rounds marinated in extra-virgin olive oil and spices) that afternoon on the Tennessee River. But it was the following day, when the event was over and the guests had made their way home, that I found myself in the confines of my own kitchen with several unopened jars of Belle Chèvre. I made dinner by opening a jar and sitting it on my kitchen worktable with a package of crackers and some blueberries. I’ve never looked back. My first bite of that goat cheese-olive oil concoction set my head spinning and kept my mouth watering until I finally scraped the insides of the jar a day or so later.

      That first jar led to a second jar and I decided to start adding it to my salads.

      One day, as I was tossing together my salad, I found my jar virtually empty of the beautiful little rounds— all that was left was the oil and the crumbs of what I couldn’t reach. In that moment, an idea came upon me: there, I thought, is my salad dressing. I squeezed a lemon into the empty container, shook it vigorously, and poured the mixture over a fresh garden salad, hoping the citrus would seek out and transport any remaining bits of magic to my plate. You will find the recipe on page 40. This is my favorite dressing (and I eat a lot of salad). Over the years, I have come to add garlic and just about every herb from my garden to the dressing. As Tasia says, the recipe is a “foundation for you to understand how you can improve it or make it your own.”

      The same with friendship. Tasia and I have grown our friendship across a few recipes and a couple of Alabama counties. I am proud to call her friend, supporter, colleague, and a daily source of inspiration. Truly incredible things do tend to come from those who are brave enough to follow their passions.

      As we say in the South, “Dig in.”

      INTRODUCTION

      My Journey to Cheese

       They say we are the sum total of our experiences. For most of us, that is quite a lot of stuff, some random, some planned. But if we are to “begin with the end in mind,” do we ever really end up where we thought we would? I know I didn’t. And for that I am truly glad.

      When people ask me how I became a cheesemaker I jokingly say, “In the usual way.” I think I am being clever because there is no usual path to becoming a cheesemaker. I am pretty sure there isn’t a major one can declare for it, nor is it a vocational choice given to children, such as a fireman or nurse— at least not in the U.S. I didn’t grow up, for instance, telling my first-grade teacher that I was going to be a cheesemaker. Honestly, I didn’t even know something like that was a life choice when I was thirty, much less six.

      The only thing I remember saying that I was going to be— and I felt a bit serious about this in high school, although entirely blind as to how I might accomplish it— was the first woman Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court. I knew that it was a high aim, but I was always told that I could be anything in the world I wanted to be, and I believed it.

      I studied English Literature in college not because I knew where it would lead but because I loved it. I was certain that if I got a good liberal arts education I could do anything I wanted. Anything. Cheesemaking still wasn’t on the list.

      I ended up building a successful and fast-paced career in internet technologies that challenged and kept me busy, but when I thought about what really made me happy, what I was really passionate about, it was, without a doubt, food and cooking and the simple act of sharing it with friends. Chefs were my heroes— the golden kind like Alice Waters and Daniel Boulud— and I wanted, I thought, to be like them, dedicated to making simple things elegant and more delicious than one can imagine.

      That passion for food led me, mid-career, to the Culinary Institute of America (CIA). It was like being plugged in— how a new appliance must feel when it connects with power for the first time. Electric. I was surrounded by people whose sole purpose was to elevate and celebrate food, this source that keeps us alive, to an art form. I loved it!

      So after what seemed like a professional attempt to deep dive into the food world, I still couldn’t articulate what I wanted to do with this knowledge. Nevertheless, my passion for food, its mysteries, and its power only intensified.

       I can see now how my experiences have shaped who I am. I am an Alabama girl with a Greek heritage.

      While I was enrolled at the CIA, I went into Manhattan to my all-time favorite food store— Dean & Deluca— and was happily taking in the incredible bounty and variety of surreally beautiful foodstuffs. I wandered the aisles touching and smelling and exploring honeys and cookies and cakes and produce. Then I stopped to linger over the marvelous cheeses from around the world. I picked up a goat cheese labeled Fromagerie Belle Chèvre, and on the label it proclaimed, “Made in Elkmont, Alabama.”

      The End. That’s how I became a cheesemaker.

      Okay, there is a little more in between that “chance” finding in Dean & Deluca and my becoming a cheesemaker, but that really was the moment— the time and place— where it all started.

      After my stint at the CIA, I was lured back into my previous career, because even after culinary school and finding the cheese that was both renowned and made in my backyard, I still hadn’t put two and two together.

      I lived like this for some years more, on and off planes each week— sometimes with nanny and child in tow— until I was finally ready to get off the merry-go-round. Then, despite knowing nothing about making cheese or the market into which it is sold and distributed, I called

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