It’s that holiday house party time of the year. And while everybody knows that a good guest shows up with a bottle of wine, those who are truly considerate will bring along a little something more. They’ll bring cheese.

I don’t think I’m going to blow anybody’s mind by pointing out: people love cheese. As a matter of fact, did you know that the average American consumes 33 pounds of cheese annually? And that is just the average. There are plenty of lactose intolerant Americans who are bringing down our total. This statistic was shared with me at a slightly stuffy holiday shindig just the other night – one that would have benefited from a few plates of fromage set up on the bar.

Because cheese gets people talking. The phrase may be in vino veritas, but in my experience there is no better ice breaker than an assortment of Murray’s finest. In the first place, it brings everyone physically closer as you all jockey for position around the board. Small talk is made and patience feigned whilst you vie for slices of havarti, schmears of triple cream Brie, and shards of cave-aged Gouda.

Conversation begins a bit stilted, conventions of politeness dictating you say something until it’s your turn to use that miniature knife. You can start by throwing out that 33 pounds of cheese-eating a year figure, just to get the ball rolling. Next, of course, thank the bringer of the cheese and spend a minute or two discussing how long he or she had to wait in line at Murray’s (or the cheeseshop of your choice – but probably Murray’s). That’s usually good for at least one amusing anecdote, this time of year maybe two or three. My best one is about the time Wallace Shawn tried to cut in front of me. I was all, “Mr. Shawn, you have to take a number!” And he was like, “Never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line!” (Okay, he didn’t really say that, but it was still awesome.)

By this time everyone’s beginning to surpass their daily-recommended portion of dairy and the talk, even amongst near strangers, becomes looser. Cheese-stuffed faces are shiny, glowing even, and the air surrounding the decimated hunks of stinky goodness becomes charged with a palpable sexual energy.

At a recent party I attended we had a fantastic and voluble debate about who is actually (despite what People magazine says) the sexiest man alive. Pretty hot stuff, anyone would agree. Eloquent arguments were made, though it did get oddly shouty considering we remained in the cheese board huddle. Which is precisely the kind of festive drama one can expect when the flames of desire are fanned by Epoisses on water crackers. Factions were formed for and against the usual suspects: George Clooney, Viggo Mortensen, Jake Gyllenhaal, et al. (I suggested, as always, Christopher Eccleston but nobody wanted to hear it. As always.)

The party finally came together to reach a unanimous decision in favor of Paul Newman. Yes, we knew he had died, but it took us so long to agree on someone we collectively decided not to bring up that unpleasantness in deference to unanimity and to accommodate moving to the next room where there was rumored to be a platter of Manchego and fig jam.

Of course, this is not to say you should skip bringing the bottle of wine. That’s crazy talk. It’s only that cheese makes everything better. And isn’t that what the holidays are all about?

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