In the evenings my mother and I would use the cheese to enhance all sorts of dishes. We stewed it with cauliflower and potatoes, or tossed it into a salad of seasonal vegetables alongside crusty bread and fruity olive oil. In preparation for summer, when the island turned arid and the sheep's hay diets made their milk less palatable, we would dry the cheese outside for a few days in homemade boxes screened with mosquito nets. In its dried form, it took on a more rustic flavor, one I always found pleasantly pungent and gamy. I remember how we would grate it over minestrone soups and platters of Mediterranean antipasti, including the sun-dried tomatoes, olives, and capers my father would pickle himself. It was the only cheese we ever ate in my family, and we never grew tired of it.