Too much of a good thing.

I’d trade the land of milk and honey for a room full of free beer and cheese any day. And Saturday’s “Festival of Cheese” at the Hilton in downtown Chicago was the perfect opportunity to indulge in two of my favorite culinary offerings.

It all started around 6 in the evening. I knew we were in the right place when I spotted a man dressed as a cow wearing a hardhat that said “Bessie” on it. We walked through the main entrance of the grand ballroom to find crystal chandeliers, ornate sculptures and thousands of different kinds of cheese. I approached the first table the way a 8-year-old might approach a fifty-dollar bill on the sidewalk—cautious & filled with absolute joy.

“Pace yourself and don’t fill up on crackers and bread,” one aficionado told me as I devoured three small cubes of garlic Muenster with a smile.

Ten minutes later, things started to get blurry.

An hour later, less than halfway through the exhibit, I could barely walk. I tried to force a smile and wash away the pain with a glass of white wine. It didn’t work. I tried to tell myself that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity to eat some of the most sought after cheese on earth, but I couldn’t mentally overcome the physical lack of space in my stomach. I tried to make my way through the smoked cheese selection and nearly passed out.

Cheese always seemed so wholesome, so all American. But, for the first time in my life, I found that cheese, if not eaten responsibly, can actually hurt a person.