Should You Eat the Rind on Cheese?

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To eat the rind or not eat the rind, that is the question everyone wonders before diving into a sumptuous cheese plate. The rind is the outside layer that is part of the cheese’s aging process. It’s sort of like the crust on bread—it’s part of the cheese so you can in fact, and absolutely should (depending how adventurous your palate is), eat it. Well, that is unless of course the rind is made out of wax, bark, or cheesecloth. Yuck.

The rind is where the ripening starts, which is why a cheese’s most complex and often most pungent tastes (and smells) live there.

There are four major kinds of edible rinds: bloomy, washed, natural, and dry. Within each of these categories are oodles of fascinating subcategories. The rind can tell you the story of how the cheese was made and a great deal about the flavor profile before you even bite into it.

Bloomy Rinds

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These are the soft, sometimes fuzzy rinds that grow on the outside of familiar cheeses like Brie and Bucheron. Cheesemakers add a solution of bacteria, like Penicillium candidum, to the outside of the cheese which causes mold to then bloom and grow until it hardens all around the cheese. The bacteria breaks down the fat and gives the cheese a beautiful creamy texture. Depending on the type of milk, you may get notes that are buttery and Chardonnay-like (cow), tangy and peppery (goat), or citric and sweet (sheep).

Bloomy rinds are some of the most approachable rinds out there...even if they can sometimes look a little funky. The fuzz is totally fine so long as it’s not yellow, orange, red, or dark blue/black. If it gives off a strong ammonia-like smell, then step away from the cheese. If the rind looks like a brain...eat it. That’s just the Geotrichum fungus doing its job, and it’s delicious. Mmmm...braaaaaains. Or rather, mmmmm…Chabichou.

Washed Rind

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These bad boys are exactly what they sound like...cheese that’s been washed. The affineur (cheese master who works on the ripening process) bathes the cheese in a solution that ages and forms the thick orange skin and it results in a strong, meaty flavor. The solution varies and depends on what kind of flavor the cheesemaker is going for. Classics like Taleggio and Limburger are washed in a simple saline brine and though their smell is quite strong on the outside, their inner texture and taste is often smooth. Usually the longer they sit, the funkier they get (hello, Epoisse). Many artisan cheesemakers go wild with washed rinds and can lovingly cover their cheese with wine or beer. Now that’s a rind worth tasting.

Natural Rinds

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These are the rinds that grow with much less human interaction than bloomy or washed rinds. These kinds can be sharp and firm (Cabot’s Clothbound Cheddar) or creamy and crumbly (Gorwydd Caerphilly, Stilton). Their rind is formed simply by the natural process of aging and depends on the humidity and temperature of the cave in which they’re sitting. Air and a little bit of moisture often do the trick, though sometimes cheesecloth or leaves are wrapped around the wheel and mold tends to grow there—remove those before eating! These rinds are dry, earthy, and surprisingly complex.

Dry Rinds

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Hello Parmigiano Reggiano, my old friend. These firm, natural rinds are meant to keep mold out and simply let the cheese age into its hard, sharp perfection. These rinds aren’t the most palatable, but they make great additions to soup stock, stews, or slow-cooked pasta sauces to add some creaminess.

Wednesday’s Best Amazon Deals Include Computer Monitors, Plant-Based Protein Powder, and Blu-ray Sets

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As a recurring feature, our team combs the web and shares some amazing Amazon deals we’ve turned up. Here’s what caught our eye today, December 2. Mental Floss has affiliate relationships with certain retailers, including Amazon, and may receive a small percentage of any sale. But we only get commission on items you buy and don’t return, so we’re only happy if you’re happy. Good luck deal hunting!

Anti-Pasta: When Italian Futurists Tried to Ban Pasta in Italy

A pasta vendor in Naples during the late 19th or early 20th century.
A pasta vendor in Naples during the late 19th or early 20th century.
Carlo Brogi, Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

While speaking at a multi-course banquet in Milan on November 15, 1930, Filippo Tommaso Marinetti presented his fellow Italians with an incendiary call to action. Pasta, he said, was a “passéist food” that “[deluded people] into thinking it [was] nutritious” and made them “heavy, brutish,” “skeptical, slow, [and] pessimistic.” As such, it should be abolished and replaced with rice.

So began an outrageous crusade against the country’s most beloved carbohydrate. Not only did Marinetti's movement elicit passionate reactions on both sides, but it also had some less-than-tenuous ties to Benito Mussolini's fascist regime.

Mr. Rice Guy

Filippo Tommaso Marinetti (center) and his fellow Italian Futurists in Paris in 1912.Proa, Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

Marinetti’s initial statement spread so widely because he himself loomed large over society at the time. His 1909 “Manifesto of Futurism” launched the Futurist movement, which championed a shift away from the slow, outmoded processes of the past and toward the sleek technologies of the future. Though originally specific to art, Futurism was a nationalist cause at heart—a way for the newly unified country to catch up to other world powers—and it aligned with Mussolini’s fledgling political campaign. In fact, the two men collaborated closely while establishing their respective political parties (Marinetti’s Fasci Politici Futuristi and Mussolini’s Fasci di Combattimento) as World War I came to a close. Marinetti had distanced himself from Mussolini by the early 1920s, but he still invoked Il Duce’s policies when they served his goals.

For the pasta prohibition, they did. To make Italy less reliant on imported wheat, Mussolini’s administration had started promoting rice—which was much easier to produce domestically—over pasta. In the late 1920s, he established the “National Rice Board” and even declared November 1 to be “National Rice Day.” As Philip McCouat writes for the Journal of Art History, the dictator never went so far as to ban macaroni, but citizens were already familiar with anti-pasta sentiment by the time Marinetti began his smear campaign.

On December 28, 1930, the Futurist followed up his dinner speech with the “Manifesto of Futurist Cooking,” co-written with the artist Luigi Colombo (known as “Fillìa”) and published in Turin’s Gazzetta del popolo. In it, they described pasta itself as an “absurd Italian gastronomic religion” and pasta lovers as being “shackled by its ball and chain like convicted lifers or [carrying] its ruins in their stomachs like archaeologists.”

In short, they believed that pasta weighed Italians down and prevented them from achieving any kind of greatness. The ultimate solution was for the government to replace all food with nutritional pills, powders, and other artificial substitutes, but until the chemists could create such innovations, the Futurists would settle for swapping out pasta with rice. “And remember too,” they wrote, “that the abolition of pasta will free Italy from expensive foreign wheat and promote the Italian rice industry.”

Starch Enemies and Allies

While Marinetti’s initial speech had incited a small uprising among Italians, his written manifesto gave the issue a global audience. “Fascist Writer, All Wound Up in Health Subject, Begs Countrymen to Swallow New Theory,” the Chicago Tribune summarized in an article titled “Italy May Down Spaghetti,” which hit newsstands just two days after Marinetti’s manifesto.

Smaller presses covered the bombshell, too. “No, signor. We beseech you, call off your holy war,” Ernest L. Meyer pontificated in Madison, Wisconsin’s The Capital Times. “Would you abolish macaroni and all its tunefully christened cousins—macaroncelli, foratini, maglietti, ditalini, vermicelli—and reduce Italians to the ugly dissonances of beans, cabbage, chops, chard, and chewing gum? Fie, signor, there is no poetry in your soul, and your palate lacks wit.”

Pasta drying in the streets of Naples in 1897.J.F. Jarvis, Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division // No Known Restrictions on Publication

People living everywhere from France to Australia commented on the matter, but nowhere was the response more impassioned than in Italy. Women in the city of L’Aquila sent Marinetti a protest letter, and the mayor of Naples went so far as to proclaim that “the Angels in Paradise eat nothing but vermicelli with tomato sauce.” (Marinetti later retorted that this was simply proof of “the unappetizing monotony of Paradise and of the life of the Angels.”) But Futurism wasn’t unpopular, and the pasta ban had ardent advocates of its own. Italian writer Marco Ramperti, for example, lambasted the beloved repast in a highly imaginative op-ed.

“[Pasta] puffs out our cheeks like grotesque masks on a fountain, it stuffs our gullets as if we were Christmas turkeys, it ties up our insides with its flabby strings; it nails us to the chair, gorged and stupefied, apoplectic and gasping, with [a] sensation of uselessness …” he wrote. “Our thoughts wind round each other, get mixed up and tangled like the vermicelli we’ve taken in.”

The Movement Loses Steam

Marinetti collected the best testimonies from scientists, chefs, and literary firebrands like Ramperti and reproduced them in 1932’s La Cucina Futurista (“The Futurist Cookbook”), which also contained Futurist recipes and instructions for hosting various kinds of Futurist dinner parties. But the 1930s were an exceptionally tumultuous decade for the country—which faced the Great Depression, Adolf Hitler’s growing influence, a war with Ethiopia, the Spanish Civil War, and eventually World War II—and Italian citizens were focused less on what they were eating and more on simply eating.

Two Neapolitan boys eating plates of pasta, date unknown.Bain News Service, Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division // No Known Restrictions on Publication

Furthermore, Futurism soon ran afoul of fascism. In 1937, Hitler decried modern art as “degenerate,” anti-nationalist, and somehow inherently Jewish. Though Marinetti spoke out against these associations, anti-Semitism had already infected Italy, and fascists started condemning the Futurist movement. Since Mussolini was courting Hitler as an ally, his regime’s ties to Futurism could easily have become a political liability. In 1939, when Marinetti published a fiery denial of Hitler’s accusations in a Futurist journal called Artecrazia, the government forced it to shutter.

So, by the 1940s, Marinetti was no longer spewing consistent vitriol against pasta, Il Duce was no longer supporting the Futurist movement, and the world at large was consumed with much greater threats than linguini-induced languor. And if Marinetti ever entertained fantasies about resurrecting the cause after the war, he never got the chance—he died of a heart attack in December 1944, just months before the deaths of both Mussolini and Hitler the following April.