Ode to an artisan cheesemaker

(Jerry photographed by Michael at a get-together in the late '70s)

James Jerry Falanga

April 17, 1916 — Feb. 10, 2009

This is a little story about a man who made the best mozzarella and became a dear friend.

Jerry Falanga died Tuesday at the age of 92, leaving behind a loving family and circle of friends, and an Italian legacy in artisan cheesemaking.



If you live in the Hudson Valley, you might have seen Falanga's mozzarella for sale at Adams Fairacre Farms or other specialty markets. It's the best there is, in my humble opinion, because I knew firsthand the love and care that went into making it.



My husband and I first met Jerry when he had a little deli in Mount Carmel Square, the Italian section of Poughkeepsie. Fresh out of college, we were on a path of self-discovery and fast becoming vegetarians, reading labels on food products in search of getting back to basics.
Jerry's deli was in the hub of the Italian neighborhood, straddled between Gasparro's Bakery and Caffe Aurora, and across from Dalleo's delicatessen.
That little neighborhood has long since changed, but back then, it was one of the highlights of our weekly shopping excursion to visit Jerry in his little shop.

(Jerry always economized on the twist-ties, cutting them in half to extend the count, which is still done today)

He was such a character, and he took to us right away. We would talk about food and politics and family and all things Italian, as his mother-in-law, whom he called Grandma, sat in a corner of the store, crocheting endless things with the smallest hook, smiling broadly because she only spoke Italian but knew we were having a fun conversation. Jerry's wife, Anita, also helped in the shop, and it was like visiting family when we went to get our weekly mozzarella.

Jerry's hands and fingers were swollen plump, a result of years of working in hot water, messaging the curd that would become the mozzarella. He liked to joke about how he stretched the cheese into the shape of a neck, reminding him of how he kept his mother-in-law in line, with a wink to Grandma, who would still be smiling and crocheting in the corner.



Jerry turned us on to the best table cheese we've ever eaten and have never found the likes of anywhere since. We would buy hunks of this delectable aged sheep's milk Crotonese cheese from Calabria in the south of Italy, which, coincidentally, is the origin of my father's family.
We often would buy small wheels of the cheese for parties and mentioned once that the hard rind of the cheese was a favorite treat of the Manx cat we had. To which Jerry quipped, "I'll be your cat." I think from that point on, we saved the rinds and used them in minestrone and other hearty soups, not wanting to waste something as precious as the rind on this cheese.

In time, Jerry moved his shop from the Italian district to upper Main Street in the city.

I will never forget an image of him one windy day as we walked toward his storefront and spied him out by the curb with a shallow cardboard box from which papery swirls of pinkish skins were dancing on the breeze. We found out Jerry was sifting through a batch of cipollini onions, letting the wind take the skins and leaving behind the squat little onions which were nicer to display without the excess chaff.
Jerry told us he waited for windy days just to do this task.

Jerry and his family lived in the city near Mansion Square Park. His home had a large backyard with a big grape arbor that had blossomed over the years, yielding enough grapes which he turned into a delicious wine. I remember a summer picnic he had for us and several of our friends, who also adored his cheese, in that backyard on a hot summer day. A long picnic table was set under the arbor which was dripping with overripe grapes and bumblebees. He had a big jug of wine on the table and poured us all little juice glasses filled with his homemade red wine. We wondered how we could possibly drink red wine on such a hot day, but Jerry urged us to drop an ice cube into the glass, which made the elixir more refreshing in the hot summer heat.

The years passed, way too quickly, and we moved out of the city and saw Jerry less often.
He was getting older and sold the business to Joey Tippa, retiring in 1989.

Today, we still buy the cheese that bears his name, complete with the half twist ties, which Jerry said was one way to economize on costs.

He never economized on quality, though, and he instilled in us a love of celebrating with family and friends over good food and drink.

To Jerry and his family, we raise our glasses high and toast a legacy of Italian culture and pride.

Salud.