Is it actually just about a sandwich? Yeah, I guess it is.
From time to time, I really enjoy a nice grilled cheese sandwich. Melt a bit of sharp cheddar (Tillamook extra sharp is my favorite, if I can find it here in LA -- there's some embargo which usually prevents anything better than plain old sharp from making it to our stores) and dip it in a spot of French's plain old yellow mustard before each bite, and I am a happy, happy guy. (I just wrote "man," then erased it. Then I wrote "dude" and erased that and tried "man" again. Then, I wrote "Dennis," which made me laugh really hard. Then I settled on "guy."
So. I'm trying my very best not to get some sort of unhappy cold thing which currently involves a whole lot of coughing and this weird heaviness in my chest. It started after the 5K yesterday, and by last night it required the use of some Advil. Today, I've mostly felt like shit, but this afternoon, my body said, "Hey! You there! Old Woman!"
Nah, I'm just kidding. I really want to go into a whole Holy Grail quote-fest, but this entry is already far too silly.
My body said, "Hey, guy, dude, dennis, man, dude, manguy, guymanndude, guy, I want a grilled cheese."
"Whatever you say, Mr. BIllboard," I said.[1]
I grabbed two pieces of the best bread ever, which is called Sheepherder's Bread (it comes from Trader Joe's.) Then I grabbed two slices of Tillamook sharp cheddar and shook my fist Northward at whoever is preventing the extra sharp goodness from making its way to my door. I decided that since I'd be burping cheese the rest of the night (gross!) I may as well burp ham and cheese, so I grabbed some ham out of the meat drawer and put it on the bread and closed the whole thing up. Then, I did something really white trash: instead of butter, I sprayed some cooking spray on the pan . . . and on the bread, too.
I know. Gross. Deal.
So I turned on the burner, and began turning this mass of meat, bread, cheese, and cooking spray into the glory which is a grilled ham and cheese.
Until, uh, I forgot to turn the heat down after a second, and the bread charred a little bit.
No worries, I thought, I'll just flip it over, turn the heat down, and when it's time to eat this bitch, I'll do it after-school-1982-style: scraped with a knife into the sink. Yeeeeaaargghh!
I flipped it, turned down the heat, and walked to the dining room hutch to get a plate. When I came back into the kitchen, there was far too much smoke coming off the skillet to be good.
I learned an important lesson: spraying with cooking spray may be easier than slathering with butter, but it burns at a much lower temperature than butter does, which results in an after-school-1979-style grilled ham and cheeese: scraped with a knife into the sink, with most of the cheese still cold and unmelted except at the edges. And the ham is lukewarm too.
Not even the mustard could save it, and I'm burping ham and cheese for nothing.
[1] After the abomination that was last night's sad attempt to do a tired old parody of My Fair Lady, I hereby announce that The Simpsons has leaped the shark, and harpooned it from orbit. AAaayyy.
