Grilled Cheese Tastes Just the Same

“I’m telling you, Hun, your grilled cheese is the best I’ve ever had!” Paul’s voice sounds syrupy-sweet. “I mean, God! What cheeses are you even using? It couldn’t possibly be just American cheese slices.”

I can’t tell if I want to giggle or gag. He’s being too kind about such a simple sandwich. I want to accept the kind words, but I feel like he’s hiding behind niceties. 

“It’s just American cheese… I used butter to fry it on the pan,” I answered flatly. 

He continues to rave about this plain grilled cheese. I didn’t even make tomato soup. I just wanted dinner to be made. Cooking sounded like an immense chore after standing on my feet for hours at work. I would have asked Paul to cook, but there would have been a snowball’s chance that we’d end up with anything decent. His compliments are merely elevator music to my own chewing. 

I watched him pull his last half of the sandwich apart; he seemed to revel in its yellow glory. 

“Really, Sarah, I’ve never had anything compared to your grilled cheese. Look at how beautifully the cheese strings, and it’s not greasy, and it’s absolutely amazing.” His eyes are the size of saucers, "I think this could be the best in the world."

“Would you cut the shit, Paul?” 

“What are you talking about? I’m just giving you compliments.” He sounds defensive. His expectations for my reaction haven’t been met. I should be eating out of the palm of his hands, but, instead, I’m irritated beyond belief. 

“You’re right. That’s all you’re doing. That’s all you ever do.” I pictured my words swarming above his head like wasps. They’re angry, ready to sting at any moment. 

“Okay. I’ll stop. I was trying to make you feel good, but obviously, that’s not enough for you.” His cheeks have started to turn red. He shoves the last bite of food into his mouth and snatches his plate off the table. I’ve never seen him turn his back on me so quickly. He drops the glassware into our kitchen sink with a clatter. How careless. The flattery has ended. His performance is over, but he forgot to bow. He went from a springy, warm attitude to a crisp bitterness. It reminds me of storms rolling in with blustery cold winds, marking the end of the season. His footsteps thunder into the back of the house. The slam of a door rings out from the hallway. 

I continue to munch. The cheese is hardening in the sandwich. It’s no longer stringing as it’s cooling down. I feel my heart beating in my temples, but I’m choosing to ignore it. Quietly, I grab a wine glass. I pour a healthy amount of cheap white wine I bought myself from the gas station yesterday. It’s sugary, but it still tastes like 14% alcohol. The sandwich on the table mocks me. I can practically hear it saying, “you couldn’t placate him for one more night? Do you enjoy conflict that much?” 

In the act of self-protection, I pluck the half-eaten halfwit off the plate and swiftly rehome it to the trash. I’m focussing on the comfort only gas station wine can provide me now. It’s really not too bad. It’s sweet, like a nostalgic memory. The flavors of strawberry and apple hang around and remind me of fruit salads I’d make with my mom during her health kicks. I feel like I’ve followed in her footsteps. 

As stupid as it seems, I’ve tried to be nothing like my mother as hard as possible. I vaguely recall her saying the same thing to me as a child. She wanted to reject what her mother was, so she changed how she completed tasks ever-so-slightly to make them her own. I scoff at myself because I just realized I’m also doing that same thing. She hated cooking. So do I, if I’m being honest with myself. She was lazy about it, though. Her grilled cheese was two pieces of toaster-made toast, with the most cost-effective cheese slices, and 30 seconds to a minute in the microwave. I didn’t even know people used the stove top for grilled cheese until early adulthood. 

I remember observing my first roommate craft her sandwich. She gently and methodically covered both sides with a generous amount of butter. She must have noticed my puzzled look because she asked if she’d made a misstep. 

“Oh, no. I don’t think so, at least,” I sounded just as confused as she looked, “It’s just that I’ve never seen anyone butter grilled cheese.” Her jaw dropped when I told her how my mother threw the casual sandwich together.

“What?” Her shock sent waves throughout our tiny apartment, “you were wronged as a child. I’ll make you a real grilled cheese!”

That roommate and I don’t speak anymore, but I appreciate our experiences together. 

Changing my cooking methods was the first act in rejecting my mother. It made me feel domestic, but the food is more satisfying when care and time go into it. 

Mom never liked my father. I remember sitting at tense dinner tables. All three of us were hesitant to speak. We were afraid to start the next great family debate. I always sided with my mother. I never thought about supporting my dad. This caused a divide in our relationship. Eventually, he walked out, but the dinner table never felt comfortable. 

It’s funny that grilled cheese and a glass of wine shattered an illusion I’ve held on to. I start to giggle as my glass nears emptiness. I’m treating Paul just like my mom treated my dad. It’s so funny how these cycles permeate generations. I didn’t offer this cycle a place at the table with me, but it sure did follow. I laugh at the idea of placing eggshells in Paul’s seat. He wouldn’t find this humorous, but I can’t help but envision him sitting down and hearing the crackle. He would stand up, and the bits of white eggshell would stick to the back pockets of his pants. The daydream is just as silly as me telling him to shut up over complimenting my simple cooking. 

The grilled cheese was right. I thrive in conflict, and I’m terrible at keeping the peace. My glass is light as it’s filled with air. Time to scrub it and the plates in the sink. I’ll wash away the harsh words I’ve said with the crumbs of toast and drops of wine. It all goes down the drain smoothly. 

“I won’t start another fight over dinner,” I whisper the manifestation to myself. I don’t believe it, though. I’m turning into my mother. Maybe Paul will walk out before there’s a child in the mix. Grilled cheese tastes just the same with company as it does alone.