Harvey Flea | Mosquito. Travel Writer. Sleuth.

Mention the word “Wisconsin” to pretty much anyone on the planet, and they will hit you back with one of two automatic, knee-jerk responses.  ”Oh, Wisconsin!  The cheese state.”  Or “Oh, Wisconsin!  It’s cold there.”  Never mind the fact that California makes more cheese than Wisconsin, or that there are several states of the Union  that are much, much colder.  For some reason, the name of Wisconsin is wrapped up in the twin mystique of cheese and cold.  So it’s only logical, I guess, that the most potent symbol of Wisconsin’s love affair with cold and cheese should be a silly hat made of orange foam.

It was to explore this phenomena that I wended my way to the little-known city of La Crosse, Wisconsin, birthplace of the Cheddarhead.  One might think that the Cheddarhead sprung forth in Green Bay, home of the Green Bay Packers footballer team and the hallowed sanctum of Lambeau Field.  But no.   La Crosse is a midsized city of about 55,000 people across the state from Green Bay, just over the Mississippi River from Minnesota.  It’s a prim, quiet place, where you see for the most part clean streets, well-heeled parks and sidewalks, modest homes with maintained gardens out front, and everywhere Packers memorabilia.  Packers signs, like election season for Packers.  Packers yard ornaments.  Even the occasional automobile painted the Packers Green’N'Gold.

For as I spent time in Wisconsin, I quickly came to realize that to those living in the state, the Packers are more than

Not even the dogs are safe - the indignities pets must suffer for their crazed masters

 a team.  They are a way of life.  I found a quiet fervor there, an adoration almost.  In Wisconsin, you read in the obits about Mabel, the woman who served dutifully in her church, raised 14 children, “and never missed a Packers game for fifty years.”  As the oldest footballer team in the American NFL - and one of the few that has never changed cities - the Packers inspire a level of devotion few teams ever dream of.  Their fans are so invested in them that the tickets are all sold out . . . 30 years in advance. 

I give all that background information on the Packers because I wish you to understand the level of commitment these football fanatics have.  For those who can’t squeeze into the stadium, there are always the tailgate parties.  These are impromptu gatherings of fans out in the parking lots.  By their tens of thousands, they party outside the Frozen Tundra, huddled about makeshift fires, standing on truck beds, following the game on their portable tellies or listening on the wireless.   It takes a special brew of insanity to take otherwise normal people, throw a silly orange piece of foam on their head, and have them gather by the thousands in sub-zero temeratures.  And what of the Cheddarhead, you ask?  Simply put, no self-respecting Packers fan would be seen without his Bud Light in one hand, a bratwurst in the other, and a Cheddarhead atop his pate.  It is a phenomena that is so intrinsically tied to the Packers mystique, one can barely separate the two.

Note how no one in the video is yet wearing their Cheddarhead.  That is because it is TOO COLD to wear one until the game is on and excitement makes them forget the temp.  That is the tailgating spirit for you.  So, back to the Cheddarhead.  Once arrived in La Crosse, I made my way to the historic downtown section.  Fronting the Mississippi River, it’s a delicious section of a typical Midwestern American city that dates back perhaps a century.  Not like London, but what’s to complain.  I turned down Pearl Street and came to a modest collection of little stores.

It was here, I am told, that the Cheddarhead was born.  Local entrepreneur T.J. Peterslie is the owner of The Pearl, a circa 1910-style ice cream parlor and soda fountain.  Letting myself into the fragrant interior, I breathe in deeply the mixed odors of sugar, gourmet coffees, chocolate, and who knows what else.  Oh, but this is the wrong place, the tiny lady behind the counter tells me.  Same owner, different shop.  Cheddarheads is next door.

For all the worldwide exposure it’s garnered, for all its moments in wild newscasts and mentions on ESPN, for all the appearances in movies and the like, the Cheddarhead belies its humble origins. The bell above the door tinkles as I come in, and I walk into a modest shop with every imaginable Cheddarhead invention.  There are Cheddarheads mugs with cartoons of Cheddarheads saying things like “What moooooves you, Bossie?” for one’s supervisor.  There are little stuffed Holsteins wearing Cheddarheads.  There are postcards, shirts, keychains, calendars, books, items large and small - all the kitsch you could possibly want.  You see these items for sale in practically every petrol station, grocery store, mall, and tourist trap in Wisconsin.  But here is the Mecca, the source, the fount.

I field T.J. Peterslie to be a small, unassuming man.  Standing behind his counter, fiddling with what appears to be an ancient cash register, he admits that the Cheddarhead has succeeded beyond his wildest imaginations.  ”I never realized what a powerful symbol of Wisconsin it would become,” he admits.

Then I ask the million-dollar question.  ”So are you a Packers fan?”

He looks a bit hedgy.  ”That’s a question I get asked a lot,” he says.  ”I think the Cheddarheads are bigger than the Packers.  They are more about who we are as people living in Wisconsin.”  

Left - Robert Deniro | Right - not Robert Deniro

Then, as is so common with people in Wisconsin, he goes off wistfully about the proud legacy of the Packers, about how they are about so much more than a game.  ”You have Lambeau Field.  You have Vince Lombardi.  You have the first Superbowl.”  The Superbowl is the World Cup of American footballing.  Green Bay has not won a Superbowl since 1997, but you would never know that talking to a Packers fan.  They act as though they own the whole show.  After all, the trophy is named after their legendary coach Vince Lombardi.  And he’s about to get the treatment by Robert Deniro.  Which in the mind of a Packers fan, is proof enough that Lombardi has gone from the hall of the legends to the halls of Valhalla.

I chew on that as I move about the store, selecting a small mug to take back to my London flat.  ”So how much is all of this Cheddarheads empire worth a year?” I ask, pulling out my Visa.

T.J. Peterslie isn’t saying.  ”I still come to work every day,” he says.