Hunger

(Picture of grilled cheese sandwiches by Lenn Thompson. http://lennthompson.typepad.com/photos/uncategorized/grilledcheese.jpg)

Many things have transpired since my last post, some of them interesting, most...well, most not so much. I will post some of the interesting things later, but today is all about one of the most comforting of comfort foods -- the grilled cheese sandwich. As soon as I finish this post, I'm going to make one for myself, using some leftover Italian bread, some Asiago cheese, and maybe some paper-thin slices of apple, like Lenn Thompson put in his sandwich, pictured above.

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This also is a cheater post, in that I'm using something I wrote over 11 years ago, back when I used to post regularly to rec.food.cooking newsgroup. Partly because I cannot say anything any better about grilled cheese sandwiches than I did then, but mostly because I am in a hurry to get to making one right now, I offer this essay.

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.....It begins with a gurgle in the throat which builds to a gnawing sensation in the stomach. Soon, the whole body is in yearning, driving the spirit to move into the kitchen where the food shrine stands, humming its mantra as it performs its cooling ritual.
.....One hand moves with urgency to open the food shrine. The body is illuminated by the Light within, all 15 watts of its glory lighting the supplicant and the cabinets beyond. On and on, the shrine hums, oblivious to the worshiper at its door. Darting eyes scan the shelves for something--anything--with which to sate the hunger, some quick-fix morsel to quiet the Gastric Beast. The spirit droops. Of all times to be without leftovers.
.....Time to make a pilgrimage to the lesser shrine, where temperature is not so critical to the nourishment inside. Alas, no quick snacks to be found. Must be approaching that time of the moon when the funds have run out and only long-cooking staples are left in the pantry.
.....Without thinking, the supplicant returns to the major shrine and peers inside once more, not really seeing the contents. Her hand moves over plastic-wrapped parcels of miscellaneous contents until she senses a familiar form.
.....Ah, it is the heels and a couple of slices of the Italian loaf from the weekend spaghetti feast. Her nose picks up the scent of sharp Provolone. The supplicant scoops the treasures to a plate and prepares to eat them.
.....But, wait...wouldn't these treasures be better made into a sandwich and grilled? The Gastric Beast twists and growls its disapproval. "Feed me NOW!" it demands.
.....The supplicant lays her bits and pieces on the counter. In an attempt to calm the Beast, she stuffs one of the small bread heels into her mouth and chews slowly. Be patient, she soothes, the wait will be worth it.
.....A glance in the major shrine reveals there is no butter, but she remembers the bottle of emerald olive oil on the counter. The supplicant turns the heat on under her cast iron skillet, retrieves the oil and returns to her finds.
.....She selects two slices of the bread which are nearly the same size and brushes them with olive oil. Next she shaves several pieces of the hard, sharp cheese until she has enough to fill the sandwich. Again, The Beast fumes and rumbles, coiling and uncoiling inside her belly. Again, she speaks quietly and soothingly of the rewards of patience.
.....Layer by layer, the cheese is laid upon one slice of the oiled, dense bread. Then its mate is placed atop the cheese. Maybe it's because the supplicant is so hungry, but she imagines she can smell the earth in the groves where her oil was produced. The warm Mediterranean sun beats down upon her shoulders as she transports the unfinished sandwich to the heated skillet.
.....The heat from the hot iron vessel releases the fruity perfume of the oil. The supplicant inhales and sighs in anticipation. Again, The Beast rumbles, but it, too, sounds in anticipation.
.....Two minutes on one side, then two more on the other. The aroma of warm olive oil is accompanied by the drool-inducing fragrance of melting cheese. At last, the sandwich is finished. The supplicant removes it from the skillet to her plate, which she has in the meantime garnished with kosher dill slices and ripe tomato wedges.
.....A few steps from the shrine room to the dining room and the end of her journey is at hand. Before her lies the crisp, browned body of a perfectly executed grilled cheese sandwich.

.....The Beauty and Truth of the moment have at last stilled the growlings of the great Gastric Beast. The feast begins.

.....Silence reigns, broken only by the muted crunching of teeth upon food and the tinkling of ice in her glass of Golden Assam. Her longing answered, the supplicant enters a state of grace. Nirvana.
Martha McLemore (c) October 1997

There is a light dusting of snow upon the ground and the wind is howling its song to the gods of the season. The tea kettle is on, heating water for some recumbent Lapsang souchong leaves at the bottom of my favorite beat-up old teapot. I have the house all to myself for a few hours and I am going to spend some of that time indulging in nesting.

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It is good to be alive.