August 7-13, 2003
naked city
 Say cheese: At the Reading Terminal Market, Claudia Raab shows off her namesake fromage (and Aaron Lapp’s straw hat). Photo By: Michael T. Regan  |
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Can a Philly foodie and an Amish farmer successfully introduce the world to Amish artisanal cheese?
When Claudia Raab heard that a cheese had been named after her, she cried.
For the 53-year-old Mt. Airy resident, it was "like winning a Nobel Prize." It was the culmination of a dream and the symbol of a friendship between her and Aaron Lapp, an Amish farmer who makes "Claudia" using raw, organic milk from his own grass-fed cows.
For many in the Philadelphia food community, this local cheese is a breakthrough. "Claudia" is the first artisanal product made and aged by local Amish farmers. It will soon be offered through the Metropolian Bakery, at Di Bruno's and will be joining other fine cheeses at Le Bec-Fin.
For Aaron Lapp, 42, father of 11, the success of "Claudia" will mean that his children will be able to stay on the farm that his grandfather worked. But it's still a way to go before that dream is certain.
Since late June, Lapp has been hitching a ride on Benuel Kauffman's produce truck every Saturday to bring wheels of his cheese to the Reading Terminal Market.
It's 8 a.m. and the market has just opened. Set against a tapestry of fruits and vegetables, Lapp covers a small card table with white paper on which he'll display rounds of his current cheeses.
There are handwritten signs on each of his three cheeses. "Claudia" is a semihard cheese, full flavored, tangy and nutty; "Delia" (named after Raab's daughter) is softer, milder and smoother. The third is a well-aged cheddar. All are made with raw milk and echo the taste of the organically grown grasses on which Lapp's 30 cows feed.
"My dream," he says, "is to make all my milk into cheese. So that the land can be used for growing instead of shopping centers."
Lapp, like many Amish, is camera shy, but says it's OK to describe him. You notice at first his eyes. which are bright, bright blue. Under the wide brim of a straw hat, his hair is cut in a pageboy, his smooth face framed by wisps of a red beard. With an easy smile and a ready laugh, he's lean, compact, even elegant -- despite the baggy black trousers, which would fall down were they not held up by skinny black suspenders. His plain blue shirt is finished with a row of pearl white buttons down the front.
Lapp calls to passersby in an almost raspy voice: "Raw milk cheeses. Handmade. Organic milk. No chemicals. Natural mold." Little crowds of five or six gather around. If someone makes eye contact with Lapp, he will then offer, "Care for a taste?"
Tasting is important because Lapp is new at this and these cheeses can be fickle. Their tastes, he explains, depend on the "batches of milk, the condition of the cows -- everything makes different kinds of cheese, because nature itself changes."
Around 9 a.m., Claudia Raab arrives, surveys the scene and immediately starts commenting on Lapp's setup.
"Presentation is so important," she chides Lapp, who's clearly delighted to see her, despite her fussing.
The two are a study in contrasts. Lapp is stark. Raab favors patterned sundresses, her brown curls are piled high on her head. What they have in common are their blue eyes and a sense of humor.
Raised in Elkins Park, Raab pursued social and ecological issues as a young adult, culminating with a stint as a homesteader in Nova Scotia. She learned to cook professionally, but found herself drawn to more basic issues of food -- which for her boils down to the question of whether family farms can survive. Raab works occasionally with the Farm to City program; she has no financial stake in Lapp's dairy farm.
The two met three years ago when Raab went on a tour of Amish farms sponsored by the White Dog Cafe. Lapp overheard her talking about the dearth of fine Amish cheeses. Lapp's interest was piqued because he had quality milk, having switched to organic methods almost a decade ago.
"I quit using all chemicals in 1993," he says, "because the ground was dead, and I saw many health problems with the cows. So instead of feeding the cows everything [with commercial feeds], I want the cows to feed off the land, nature's way."
Raw milk does fetch a premium price, but Lapp found much of his cow's milk was being used to make supermarket-type cheeses, which retail for only about $4 to $5 a pound. Aged, artisanal cheeses sell in the $15 to $20 range.
Lapp invited Raab to meet his wife and children and to see his farm; Raab was enthralled.
"She was so excited," says Lapp, "that we did what she wanted us to do."
Which also meant that Raab found herself driving Lapp several hundred miles back and forth to Vernon, N.J., to work with master cheesemaker Jonathan White of Bobolink Dairy. White taught Lapp about the art of cheesemaking and especially the benefits of careful aging in a cheese cave.
Problem was, Lapp's community didn't have a cave in which to age their cheeses. And so, last winter, he convinced family and friends to build one, three-feet underground, at an existing dairy near Peachbottom. And so Lapp's Green Valley Dairy was born.
Back at the Reading Terminal Market, Raab is still kvetching, this time about Lapp's brochure introducing the new dairy.
"I'm gonna show you what to take out," says Raab. "Take out the part about me, for one thing."
The crowd is thickening around the card table. Lapp cuts each piece to order, wrapping it in white paper. He presents a package of "Claudia" in his big, soft hands, holding it the way someone might handle a souffle.
"Are these your children?" asks one woman, referring to the handwritten signs on the cheese rounds.
"No," says Lapp to the shopper. "We have a good cow named Claudia." Lapp and Raab crack up and share a good, long laugh together.
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