[center][color=yellow][h3]Gruyere Emmentaler Caerphilly Yarg[/h3][/color][/center]

By the time Gru finished, the cheesemonger was quite out of breath. Even if his rats were the ones who hauled him around the Clanhold’s outlying farms, collectively doing all the physical labor, Gru had been working hard. He’d begun discussion after discussion at a disadvantage, trying to balance out negotiation and ingratiation as he strove to make the smartest use of his money. As much as his business needed milk, he could not afford to settle for poor-quality ingredients, nor ones on the precipice of expiration, nor ones that failed to meet his standards for hygiene. His morning had become a balancing act of elephantine (or given the circumstances, perhaps even mûmakil-ine) proportions, keeping track of names and locations, exact quantities, quality evaluations, probable shelf life, and of course, money. As always Gru was extremely exacting with his funds, deducting each expenditure from his overall total in his ledger with meticulous attention to detail. One miscalculation and he could unwittingly spend his bottom dollar–or worse, spend money he no longer had. Going into the red while betting on a future bonanza was a risky proposition at the best of times, but in the land of the Dinnin, debt could be worse than a death sentence.

After what felt like hours rushing back and forth through the miserable heat, Gru finally shut himself up in the Chuck Wagon to take a much-needed, well-deserved break. His rats accompanied him, either in the wagon’s rooms or their dedicated habitat in the ‘attic’, shielded from the desert’s scorching sun. Gru refilled his water bottle from a spigot on the same custom tank that his rats drank from, then took a deep sip, noting that his stores were getting a little low. While the Caravan did offer a communal water source, the cheesemonger much preferred to have his own private supply. On one hand, it was only fair. Between himself and his breathtaking abundance of rats, after all, the Chuck Wagon’s usage outstripped the vast majority of Pilgrims by a large margin. On the other hand, that meant that nobody else could threaten his supply, and in the case of an emergency, he would be self-sustaining. Of course, he expected that water would come at a premium in the desert, and while his careful calculations ensured that enough money remained for emergencies like a water shortage, he could no longer spend frivolously. Not until the cash started rolling in.

For anyone else in the business, that moment would have been a long way off. Cheese took a great deal of time, so much so that it could be weeks before even an inferior product could be considered finished. Gru, however, was no ordinary cheesemaker. While the others went off into the Clanhold for sightseeing and adventure, he planned to start work right away. By the time the others returned, there would be new cheeses waiting to tickle their taste buds. Not long after Gru caught his breath, he received his first knock on the door. The milk had begun to arrive. It was time to unseal the vats, lay out the cheesecloth, uncork the rennet, leaf through the recipes, and bring out the curd cutters. After so many damnable days spend idle, just twiddling his thumbs while his stocks slowly (or in certain cases, quickly) dwindled, Gru was more than ready to get busy.

As always, the first phase involved nothing but genuine cheesemaking skill, be it in processing the raw materials himself, or directing his crews of rats to maximize throughput. With several batches ongoing at any one time, this involved almost as much juggling as all the acquisition Gru went through earlier, but this time the cheesemonger was in his element. No bad attitudes, no strange customs, no wheeling and dealing, and no balancing the books; just practicing his craft alongside the critters he cherished most. Compared to dealing with people, this felt far simpler, almost relaxing even. Seeing his creatures go about their business brought him a remarkable amount of joy, as well. For the most part his rats did just as he told them, his orders relayed through his four most prized (and intelligent) pets, but sometimes his darlings displayed such a familiarity with their tasks that Gru could swear they were actually developing skills and honing their craft.

Once the creation process had finished, the rest was up to time as the cheeses either soaked in brine, or got transferred over to the Chuck Wagon’s dry room to age on its shelves. This was the point at which a normal cheesemonger would need to play the waiting game, and yet, Gru’s skill was such that he could age his products at speeds that beggared belief. Incredible? Certainly. Unnatural? Well, no need to sensationalize. It was only natural that those ignorant of natural science would look at its products and assume magic, and who knew anything about mycology? Who could say what was possible, or impossible? Only Gru.