My favourite sandwich is unequivocally grilled cheese. I love all types – greasy, gourmet, stuffed with American cheese or Swiss, on white, wheat, or multigrain bread, topped with bacon, almond shavings, or pepper slices. I’ll eat it anywhere. I’ve been known to order it in the fanciest of restaurants and the smallest of shops. There’s just something about that gooey, rich flavour that gets me every time.
I think my love of the sandwich began in early childhood. When I was young, I had a nanny. I called her my Nonna. In her mid sixties, she wore teal pants and sweaters made from polyester. She made grilled cheese and applesauce every Friday for lunch, and to my young taste buds, it was the best meal I would ever consume. And honestly, Nonna was the best nanny I could have hoped for. She drove an hour from her house to mine for the better part of four years. During that time, she drove me to my music lessons, played Barbies for hours on end, and cared for me like I was her own granddaughter. When I entered grade school she moved in with her son’s family. But for the past ten years, whenever I’ve visited, she’s made grilled cheese and applesauce, right on schedule.
My dad makes the best grilled cheese this side of the Allegheny. He uses all kinds of bread: sourdough, nutty, sometimes even rye if he’s feeling wild. He manages never to burn the bread on our ancient skillet, knowing just when to flip the calorie-laden concoction. Dad always jumps at the chance to create, too. Done poorly on a math test? Grilled cheese can help. Finally managed to talk to that cute boy at lunch? Better celebrate with a grilled cheese! No plans for dinner? Think again. On occasion he’ll deviate from the standard two-slice model, substituting a tortilla shell or a Wasa cracker. However he chooses to craft his masterpiece, one can rest comfortably, knowing that it will most certainly be delicious.
From time to time, inspired by the rave reviews from Dad’s skill, I will foolishly attempt to make my own grilled cheese. One might think that, being such a connoisseur of the food, I’d have perfected at least one recipe. This is not the case. For one thing, I never know when to turn the sandwich over. This results in either a charred block or a buttery mess, and not the good kind. I am also afraid of failure, and thus refuse to take risks when it comes to my creations. Sure, I’ll sneak on the occasional tomato, but it never results in excellence like my father’s. And don’t get me wrong: I’m not aiming for a sandwich as complex as one made by, say, Wolfgang Puck. I’d be thrilled to master the simple American cheese slice between white bread. Not that I'm not for a little purity now and then, but somehow I manage to screw up even the simplest of sandwiches. I know I will end up eating a good number of awful grilled cheeses of my own construction when I get to college, but for the time being, I think I’ll stick with Dad’s.
Until I sat down to write this, I hadn’t really thought about how grilled cheese has been such an institution in my life. But now the cheesy curtain has been drawn aside, the buttery screen has been cleared, and I see the light. Somehow, a grilled cheese and a cold glass of milk can draw me out of a funk, at least long enough to think objectively about my problem – often with input from my dad. In addition, the sandwich can be as complex or as simple as the cook wishes, but if done right, it is guaranteed to bring a smile to the face of the fed. I urge everyone to embrace the grilled cheese and to make it a part of his or her life.
I think my love of the sandwich began in early childhood. When I was young, I had a nanny. I called her my Nonna. In her mid sixties, she wore teal pants and sweaters made from polyester. She made grilled cheese and applesauce every Friday for lunch, and to my young taste buds, it was the best meal I would ever consume. And honestly, Nonna was the best nanny I could have hoped for. She drove an hour from her house to mine for the better part of four years. During that time, she drove me to my music lessons, played Barbies for hours on end, and cared for me like I was her own granddaughter. When I entered grade school she moved in with her son’s family. But for the past ten years, whenever I’ve visited, she’s made grilled cheese and applesauce, right on schedule.
My dad makes the best grilled cheese this side of the Allegheny. He uses all kinds of bread: sourdough, nutty, sometimes even rye if he’s feeling wild. He manages never to burn the bread on our ancient skillet, knowing just when to flip the calorie-laden concoction. Dad always jumps at the chance to create, too. Done poorly on a math test? Grilled cheese can help. Finally managed to talk to that cute boy at lunch? Better celebrate with a grilled cheese! No plans for dinner? Think again. On occasion he’ll deviate from the standard two-slice model, substituting a tortilla shell or a Wasa cracker. However he chooses to craft his masterpiece, one can rest comfortably, knowing that it will most certainly be delicious.
From time to time, inspired by the rave reviews from Dad’s skill, I will foolishly attempt to make my own grilled cheese. One might think that, being such a connoisseur of the food, I’d have perfected at least one recipe. This is not the case. For one thing, I never know when to turn the sandwich over. This results in either a charred block or a buttery mess, and not the good kind. I am also afraid of failure, and thus refuse to take risks when it comes to my creations. Sure, I’ll sneak on the occasional tomato, but it never results in excellence like my father’s. And don’t get me wrong: I’m not aiming for a sandwich as complex as one made by, say, Wolfgang Puck. I’d be thrilled to master the simple American cheese slice between white bread. Not that I'm not for a little purity now and then, but somehow I manage to screw up even the simplest of sandwiches. I know I will end up eating a good number of awful grilled cheeses of my own construction when I get to college, but for the time being, I think I’ll stick with Dad’s.
Until I sat down to write this, I hadn’t really thought about how grilled cheese has been such an institution in my life. But now the cheesy curtain has been drawn aside, the buttery screen has been cleared, and I see the light. Somehow, a grilled cheese and a cold glass of milk can draw me out of a funk, at least long enough to think objectively about my problem – often with input from my dad. In addition, the sandwich can be as complex or as simple as the cook wishes, but if done right, it is guaranteed to bring a smile to the face of the fed. I urge everyone to embrace the grilled cheese and to make it a part of his or her life.
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