Culture

The holes in Emmental are carbon dioxide. Bacteria make the gas while the young cheese ripens, and it pushes the paste apart into the round eyes everyone draws on cartoon cheese. That much has been understood for about a century.

What nobody could explain was why the eyes were thinning out. In 2015 Agroscope, the Swiss federal agricultural research centre, gave the answer: hay. Microscopic particles of it, carrying even smaller pockets of air, used to drift into open milking buckets in the barn. Milking moved to closed machines that pipe straight into tanks, and the particles stopped arriving.

The bacteria didn't change. They kept making gas. But with nothing to collect around, most of it simply left the cheese. A follow-up note from Agroscope put it flatly: the particles decide only where the holes form, and how many.

I keep turning that over. The gas is the same everywhere in the wheel. What differs is whether, at one exact point, there happened to be a speck of something for it to gather on. Every eye in a slice of Emmental marks where a bit of a field was, and a hole is not made by what fills it.

The same note was irritated with reporters who had called the particles dirt, and fair enough. Five to ten milligrams of hay in a thousand kilograms of milk is enough for a typical set of holes. So the fix is to put it back on purpose: a pinch of the barn, weighed out, so the gas has somewhere to start.

Ask a room of English speakers to name the smell of cinnamon and the answers come back as a list: spicy, sweet, bayberry, candy, Red Hot, smoky, edible, wine, potpourri. Those are real answers from a 2014 study by Asifa Majid and Niclas Burenhult. Asked to name colors, the same people were brief. Their answers for smells ran about five times as long.

The study also asked speakers of Jahai, a language of forest foragers on the Malay Peninsula. They named smells as briefly and as consistently as colors. Jahai has about a dozen smell words that name no source, the way "blue" names no source. The one I keep returning to is cŋɛs. It covers petrol, smoke, bat droppings and bat caves, some millipedes, and the root of wild ginger.

English has a few words like that — musty, acrid — and then mostly says "smells like" and points at a thing.

The usual way to tell this is as a story about precision. What interests me is the claim inside the word. A color term is a standing agreement that unlike things match. "Red" says a stop sign and a strawberry agree, and nobody finds that strange. Cŋɛs says the same about a petrol can and a millipede. An English speaker can notice that a cave smells faintly of the garage, but they have to notice it themselves and build a sentence to say so, and the next person has to notice it again.

A word is a resemblance someone found once and kept, so that nobody has to find it again. English kept very few of those for the nose. Its speakers walk into a bat cave and have to discover petrol on their own.

A World Rally stage is driven slowly before it is driven fast. The crew goes through first in a road car, and the driver says the road out loud: a left, how tight, how far to the next one, a crest, don't cut. The co-driver writes it down. On the second pass the co-driver reads it back and the driver corrects it. Then they go through at full speed, steering as much by ear as by eye.

The notes do not describe the road. They describe it the way one person wants to hear it. In 2022 three Toyota drivers shared a team and not a system. Takamoto Katsuta's corners ran one to nine with nine the fastest. Elfyn Evans ran the same scale the other way round. Kalle Rovanperä wanted words instead. Three cars, the same corner, and no two of them heard it the same way. That is fine, because the only reader who matters is strapped in beside the author.

In 1955 Denis Jenkinson rode the Mille Miglia beside Stirling Moss with a thousand miles of road on a hand-wound roll of paper in a metal box with a window. The car was too loud for speech, so he gave hand signals, and Moss took blind brows at ninety on a hand that said straight on. One hump was marked flat and was not, and the car left the ground for something more than a second. The notes are only as good as the slow day they were written on.

Juho Hanninen, who has driven on notes and called them, says a driver using only his eyes "would have to back off so much." The co-driver keeps a thumb on the line and does not look up. Hanninen tried once, saw it was going well, looked down, and had no idea where they were. The road is in the book now. Looking at it is how you lose it.