Brunost: The Delightful Norwegian Brown Cheese

I loved a lot of foods in Norway – salty licorice gummy candy, cloudberry jam, reindeer stew, nettle pie, milk chocolate, waffles with sour cream – but the thing I loved best was brunost. Brown cheese.

Thanks to a meticulous co-operative system, low population density, and rolling, picturesque hills, nearly all the dairy consumed by Norwegians comes from small farms located in Norway. Moreover, they are incredibly proud of their dairy heritage. As soon as I landed in Norway, everyone I met asked, “Have you tried whole milk? Have you tried skim milk? Have you tried cream? Have you tried 2% milk? Have you tried rømme (sour cream)? Have you tried snøfrisk (mild, pillowy goat cheese)? Have you tried yellow cheese (a mild cow’s milk cheese)?”

“Have you tried brown cheese? It’s not really a cheese,” my partner’s mother said to me on one of my first mornings in Brandbu.

“What?” I said, obviously confused.

“It’s made from the byproduct of yellow cheese,” she explained.

So I tried it, still puzzled. It resembled a slightly sticky version of Colby cheese, with a sweetness reminiscent of brown butter. Suddenly, I realized what it was: whey cooked down until it caramelized.

For the next two weeks, I eagerly sought out various kinds of brown cheese throughout Norway, from Trondheim to Oslo. Sometimes it was labeled geitost, gjetost, or fløtemysost, while other times, it went by variations of gudbrandsdalsost. These terms vary by region and refer to whether the brunost is made from cow or goat milk, or both, as well as its sweetness. The best way to distinguish them is simply to taste, as even Norwegians sometimes seem unsure about the meanings of the terms, apart from “Gudbrand,” which refers to a style originating from Gudbrandsdalen (the Gudbrand Valley).

No matter the variant, I quickly learned that the way you eat brown cheese is significant. First and foremost, using an ostehøvel (cheese slicer) is essential for slicing it correctly. Brunost is too dense and sticky to cut efficiently with a knife; attempting this will result in thick, awkward pieces. I made the mistake once of assuming it would be good in a savory sandwich, similar to how caramelized onions work with a baguette. I quickly learned it was not suitable for that purpose. Instead, brunost is best enjoyed on buttered bread with jam or atop warm, buttery Norwegian waffles. Interestingly, the end pieces of brunost are often used to thicken pan sauces or enhance stews.

I discovered my preferred way to eat brunost in the mountains outside of Vinstra. This is not merely a recipe but rather a style of brown bag lunch called matpakke, which translates to “food package.” To create it, you place cheese or fish or meat on bread, wrap it in matpakkepapir (parchment paper), and take it with you for work or on a hike. If you opt for the latter, it’s essential to remember a Kvikk Lunsj, a Norwegian delight resembling a Kit Kat bar, but with superior milk chocolate made from Norwegian dairy. “Kvikk Lunsj on a hike is part of the Norwegian national identity,” my partner’s brother-in-law remarked to me. Two hours later, sitting on a wool blanket amidst a chilly fog, I understood precisely why.

In rural Norway, a law known as allemannsrett (the freedom to roam) grants individuals the right to hike or camp on uncultivated, unfenced lands, provided they maintain a distance of about 500 feet from residences, behave respectfully, and leave after two days. Initially passed into law in 1957, this concept dates back to ancient times and encompasses most shores, bogs, forests, and mountains. Allemannsrett allows for hours of walking through serene landscapes, making it easy to get lost—accidentally following a sheep’s path through reinlav (mountain moss). Midway through a long trek, feeling both exhausted and exhilarated, nothing sounds more appealing than calorie-dense bread with butter and brunost, followed by a Kvikk Lunsj and a thermos of coffee.

Returning to Brandbu at the end of my trip, I took some time to experiment with cooking with brunost while I still had access to it at the nearby supermarket. I couldn’t resist purchasing Brunost, an intriguing cookbook I found in Trondheim. As the author Ane Nordvik Hasselberg promised, brown cheese melted seamlessly into liquid without becoming grainy and quickly made delicious caramel sauce.

“It burns so well too,” a chef friend of mine mentioned, referencing a 2013 incident where over 27 tons of brunost caught fire in a tunnel, astonishing locals with its flammability. However, you don’t need a conflagration to appreciate the pride of Norway’s dairy farmers; you simply need a thin slice of brunost on some thick brown bread.