I make a mean grilled cheese sandwich. I’m actually very proud of it. I’ve had lots of grilled cheese sandwiches in my life, and I can honestly say that I have never had a grilled cheese that I liked better than the ones that I make. I will openly brag about my grilled cheese, probably because I know that in the grand scheme of things it’s a harmless thing to brag about.
I don’t care for grilled cheese sandwiches that get “fancy.” I don’t need four kinds of cheese and artisan bread and a hint of dill or whatever. I’m sure they’re fine, and I’m even sure that I would enjoy them, but when I’m thinking about having a grilled cheese sandwich, I’m thinking about the ingredients at which chefs and nutritionists would sneer.
White bread. Margarine. American cheese. That’s it. My secrets have to do with ingredient proportions, cheese placement, proper heat, and a sense of timing.
Ann — who, as many of you know is a flipping genius in the kitchen — has regularly heaped praise upon these sandwiches. (She occasionally puts pickles in hers, but I’m willing to overlook that.)
So it was with a ridiculous, stupid, overblown sense of pride that I watched as Sage tried her first teeny-tiny sample of grilled cheese this past weekend. She seemed to really enjoy it.
AND SO MY CULT BEGINS.