The Weekend of Ward: Cheese-induced madness

Some substances are bound to incite chaos. Scarce supplies of illegal drugs will do this. Excess gunpowder is also disruptive to calm. But until I witnessed hundreds of people climbing over each other's bodies and begging—shrieking—for grilled cheese sandwiches, I never knew that humans could be so feral.

The annual Grilled Cheese Invitational on Saturday was not for the weak-nerved or the lactose shy. I'd skipped not only breakfast, but lunch—and dinner—in anticipation of an evening filled with grease and regret. At a semi-secret location in Griffith Park, 140 competitors set up hot plates, lined up bricks of butter and brandished cheeses with unpronouncible names as the public clamored desperately for their efforts. The "missionary" category mandated that only cheese, butter and bread be employed, but the exotic "kama sutra" round allowed all manner of garlic pastes and French onion spreads and other substances that I would burp up later with both disgust and nostalgia.

As contestants in bawdy aprons, hats fashioned of cheese and in some cases, feather boas, scrambled with spatulas and piles of cheese curds, I hovered near a man in a kilt who offered me a bite-size sample of molten gruyere on the condition that I agreed to be hand-fed. My better judgment abandoned me. Before I knew it, in front of hundreds of strangers, I had a mouthful of toasted bread and cheese on my face. I had become an animal. Grilled cheese will do this to you.

Urging you to check yourselves before wrecking yourselves,