This second surprise was too much for the little man, and he almost
fell down in his emotion.
What his dreams were that night must have been like one of the Arabian
Nights.
REGGIO, _October 17th_.
Dear ----,--Count Spaletti has a very fine _château_ (a large park and
a beautiful forest), where he and his family live in patriarchal style.
It is the true Italian traditional home-life in every respect.
There is on the farm a large building in which the famous Parmesan
cheese is made. We were shown the entire process from the milking of
the cows down to the great wheels (which look like millstones) and the
completed cheese. Milking is a process with which you are, perhaps, not
familiar. It is done with the help of a maiden and a three-legged
stool, while the cow goes on chewing the worn-out cud of her last meal,
occasionally giving a Cenci-like glance of approbation.
But I won't tell you about that; I will let you in the secrets of
Parmesan-cheese making, so that when you are eating it grated on
macaroni you may know what an old stager you have to do with. The milk
is put in great vats just as it comes from the _mesdames les vaches_;
there it remains, occasionally turned around, not churned, with a
wooden paddle, until it becomes a solid substance.
When it is hard enough to handle it is put into large round wooden
forms and allowed to remain untouched--for how long do you think? _One
year!_ Then they put it under the oil _régime_--that is to say,
olive-oil is poured through the cheese at regular intervals until the
rind is as black and thick as leather. In four years it is ready to be
sold. Each cheese weighs several hundred pounds, is a foot thick, and
is as big as a cart-wheel. We eat it every day for luncheon and dinner.
I like it so much better, fresh and straight from the farm (if anything
four years old can be called fresh), than when stale and grated.