hen you’re down and depressed and, let’s face it, using the lid of your tupperware container as a plate—nothing hits the spot like a grilled cheese sandwich. For a while, I was an evangelical peanut butter and honey fan, but I can’t remember the last time I had one of those. These days when I want comfort, I go straight for the skillet. Works every time.

I have sat through Weight Watchers meetings where women (because it’s almost always all women) rhapsodize about cookies and cake and blueberry pie. It’s not that I don’t like these things—they’re fine, I guess—but I can take them or leave them. Getting through the day without sushi and a giant block of cheddar, on the other hand, is no easy task.

The other day, I was dispatched by my friend Lisa to buy cheese at the grocery store. I searched through the gourmet section and found a nice hunk of white cheddar. On the label, in the place where it’s supposed to say where it was made, it read, “Cheese Island.” Holy crap. Cheese Island?!? I don’t know where it is—but I know where I’m taking my next vacation.