... finding the perfect cheese

Of course, this problem might sound a bit odd if you are not a cheese aficionado yourself. But for those of us who love nothing more than the smell of the cheese counter and whose stomach swoops every time we hear the words "cave aged," it's next to impossible to choose just one cheese, especially when you know there are so many more out there to try.

Funnily enough, I've known my true love ever since I was a child, but it wasn't until this summer that I finally recognized this and announced my intentions to the world.

I don't want to lie and say I didn't play around. I did. There were my soft French cheese days, my (very) aged Gouda days and even, and I am embarrassed to write this, my Emmentaler phase. But ultimately, I couldn't escape my soul mate: Gruyere, with its subtle-yet-strong flavor and rich aroma, has always been my ultimate comfort food. Cuddling me when I am down, like only a lover can, Gruyere, melted or raw, can step in on any occasion to make all my problems disappear.

What can I say? I'm a sucker for big, blond and handsome.

This summer, for the first time since I was only a year old, I had the chance to return to the town of Gruyere, Switzerland - the source of this delectable cheese, and, for me at least, the Holy Land.

It is possible, of course, to buy Gruyere in America. Any halfway-decent supermarket sells it. But what I was looking for in my mini-adventure was more than just some cheese and a good time: I was ready to commit to Gruyere and declare it my one true love. To make it understand, once and for all, that seriously, darling, that St. Nectaire didn't mean a thing! In other words, in my love affair with cheese, this trip would be the equivalent of getting engaged.

And just like a normal lover about to ask for his bride's hand, I set off, alone, without friends or family, slightly nervous, not knowing what I would find: Ecstasy or disappointment? Years of connubial bliss or tears and a messy divorce?

What I found were tourists. Tons of them. British, French, German, Mexican ... even the lone American. Apparently, I was not the only one interested in proving my devotion to Gruyere. Though I was initially slightly upset that Gruyere had spread itself so thin (no pun intended), I managed to mollify my shock as I wandered around nibbling cheese samples from the innumerable cheese shops in the town and sampling the heavy cream, which is Gruyere's less famous, though perhaps equally delicious, export. How could anyone resist such a place?

The town itself is situated at the top of a hill, and it took about 15 sweaty minutes to reach it from the train. Of course, my little workout lifted some of the guilt from the gorge fest that I was planning for myself, and the view from the castle, which lords over the whole town, was well worth the climb. Every restaurant emitted the most fragrant scent of melted cheese, and my only regret was that I was unable to capture this smell in my many, many photographs.

When I did finally find a place to myself away from the other suitors, I sat on a ledge over the dramatic drop of the surrounding valley, eating my cheese sandwich and listening to the faint cowbells in the distance. I realized that I had wasted so many years of uncertainty. There is no other cheese for me, and despite Gruyere's many admirers, I recognized beneath the succulent flavor an essence that belonged entirely to me. To have and to hold 'til death do us part.