Cheese Head

Waking up in Austin Minnesota, I realized that I should explore the local offerings. I mean, when, am I ever going to be there again? A brief search on the internet revealed that Austin is really Spamtown, USA (who knew?) and is very proud of its history as such.

During breakfast the waitress, elderly couple in the adjoining booth and I watched O.J. newest trial on CNN. A fascinating experience because I was informed by my female booth neighbor that the elderly woman that the only reason O.J. was acquitted the first time was because “they [who is they? I’d love to know] were afraid the black people would riot” huh? “You know, like they did with that beating business". Oh, racism, how utterly undisguised in the Midwest.
Based on this, is it not surprising that the sole cultural heritage of this town surrounds Spam?

I went to the Spam Museum the first museum because it was the first museum I encountered and to fill the void of knowledge about the processed meat industry that I maintain. This venerable institution taught me that spam is cooked in the little metal bins (for two and half hours), that Hormel used to have an all women's band (all of whom had to have been in the army) and that in 2003 men and women both worked full time jobs. Good stuff. I left Minnesota quickly and headed out to that fabulous state where bright orange cheese is the norm and the state school uses a badger its mascot.

I was so excited to eat cheese Wisconsin that I could hardly maintain composure. I called everyone I knew “I’m eating cheese in Wisconsin!” I enthusiastically yelled into machines. It was like chocolate cake only better. At four o’clock I arrived at the cheese outlet where I sampled many cheeses, settling on the most obnoxiously orange and smelly ones. What a far and pleasant cry from the odorless processed pig shoulders cooked in metal tins.

As I was driving, I got a call from my mother, who had heard, along with the rest of the Western world that I was eating cheese in Wisconsin. Try the ice cream she urged me, its just as good. Obviously! How could I overlook this? If the cheese was stupendous, the ice cream must be orgasmic. Good thing the blue spoon, a little bakery on the side of the highway happened to be in my path with homemade Gelato. How serendipitous is that?

My Gelato had to be followed with, of course, cheese. So, I headed south to Monroe Wisconsin which proudly boasts of it German heritage and blares lovely elevator music from the town hall, into the town square all night. My search for the cheese shop was fruitless but yielded an ice cream store that sold the good stuff by the weight (how great is that) in containers labeled "do not think of asking about the nutritious value of this product. It is made with cream and is delicious. If you want nutrients eat carrots." Fair enough. The ice cream really is stupendous.

The girl at the ice cream store steered me to the cheese shop which doubled as a German beer garden and restaurant. (you see why I missed it the first time?) Here, I got more orange stuff and a sandwich for 2.75 which was advertised on every possible surface to be the best cheese sandwich in the world. My cheese binge starting wearing on my waistline, breath and everything else so I decided to bid Wisconsin goodbye and head down to Illinois.

In Illinois I had the task of finding my relatives which was relatively easy as the highway is clearly marked with signs for “the northwest suburbs”. This signage was immensely amusing me, a New Yorker as we don’t label things and would never dare to undertake such a move as to categorize, group or brand our suburbs. I mean really, how pedestrian is that?

My family and I had a great, but short visit, after which I headed out to Indiana, home of, well, nothing really. I should note here my immense disappointment in Gary, Indiana which I had idealized and looked forward to visiting since I first heard it sung about in The Music Man in 1985. It is not anyone’s home sweet home. It is, rather, the big and ugly Newark of the Midwest. Unfortunate for everyone, particularly me, who was planning to sleep there, but refused to after seeing the unending smoke stacks and hearing about the murder rate. I slept instead in Le Porte Indiana a truly unremarkable town, where my shower lacked drainage and the internet is accessed through dial-up.