Who Are These Maximalist Cheese Boards For?

Somewhere in the middle of this Venn diagram is clustered most of my Instagram life: all those algorithmic scabs I keep picking as I just can’t get enough. These cheese plates—sometimes called charcuterie platters, or even “grazing tables”—are not cheese boards as you might know them, with a hunk of Cheddar and maybe a wedge of Stilton, a few Carr’s crackers, and sliced apples.

At their most extravagant, these “plates” are entire tables so laden that you can scarcely see the wood for the cheese. The most audacious are those marketed as “self-care”—locating that once political praxis somewhere between the Comté and the chicken liver mousse.

When writer and activist Audre Lorde first began talking about self-care in 1988, it was as an act of “political warfare”: a way for black women to preserve their strength in the face of a misogynistic and racist society. The version of self-care that these platters espouse is rather less radical—a politics as soft, indulgent, and, well, cheesy as a ripe Brie. “Spending $50 at a cheese shop is ok.

Making a cheese plate and eating it all by yourself in one sitting is ok. Eating handfuls of shredded cheese at 3AM is ok,” tweeted one cheese fan Twitter account, apparently with tongue only half in cheek. “Do what u need to do to cope.” It was only a matter of time before cheese became a vessel for these kinds of big promises. It happened to the practice of eating healthfully, when things like eating veg and drinking water were swallowed into the Goop-y quicksands of wellness.

If serving $300 of fresh produce—none of which is easy, carb-y “filler,” and all of which needs to be sourced with extreme care from high-end grocery stores or specialty delis—is about helping us to be the best, happiest, and most fulfilled versions of ourselves, I’m curious to know who that “us” really is. The most audacious are those marketed as “self-care”—locating that once political praxis somewhere between the Comté and the chicken liver mousse.

Cera cheese to the “butter crumble” texture of a good Lancashire—might rankle at the exuberance of the outsize grazing table, where the actual qualities of the cheese are all but lost to the spectacle. “I don’t want it to be a gimmick. If putting together a cheese board is about mindfulness, Ned certainly has that covered: He immerses himself fully in his senses, smelling, squeezing, and tasting his way toward the best cheeses he can find.

If it’s about creating something beautiful for your guests, he succeeds on that count, too (in spite of that pungent St. If it’s about “self-care”—even of a defanged, depoliticized sort—I’ve never seen anyone, anywhere, as joyous as Ned was when he was cutting into a wedge of Stichelton, a perfect, creamy blue cheese made from unpasteurized cow’s milk.

Ned knows that for all the talk of craftsmanship, terroir, and tradition in cheese circles, there needs to be room for fun, too. Somewhere between the high altar of cheesedom and the Dante’s Inferno that is the “grazing table,” there are string cheeses and blocks of slightly sweaty Cheddar and Kraft Singles, all of which can be laid out on a plate and enjoyed—even exalted—if you just know how to have fun with the food you eat. Pondering the theatrics of over-the-top cheese boards, Ned can’t help but smile. “There’s a cheesemonger I know.

Cheese plates help me bring together the people I care about.” And it works. But in their ridiculous, dreamy maximalism, these boards capture the depths of conspicuous consumption. The best of our wild and wondrous appetites. “It’s like a pile of weird treasure, you know?” Alison enthuses, almost in spite of herself. “There’s something fantastical about it.” It can be hard to stop looking at beautiful things—even at things you hate.