First off I would like to apologize for not posting in a few days. I am sure there's nearly 1/5 of a dozen people out there wondering what has been keeping me. The quick and easy answer being.... life. Our household has been racked with illness since the onset of the Yuletide festivities, and is finally showing signs of abating. I (knock wood) have been the sole member of the quintet not having succumbed to the big yuk, and hopefully will remain as such.
As you can imagine tending to an ailing household takes a pretty heavy toll on ones energy, creative drive and appetite. Don't get me wrong, I certainly am not complaining about the task. I take a particular joy in trying to make the unwell less so, and feel great satisfaction after preparing three or four different dishes for the same meal knowing that scattered throughout the house there are my little ones feeling not quite as awful as before. Amazing how a simple meal can take the edge off a great unpleasantness. Which brings me to this belated and abbreviated posting.
I was home for lunch today, as I am every workday, and for the first time in weeks it was just my wife and myself. No dashing from room to room checking on the sicklings, patting them on the bottom and telling them everything is going to be all right. A lunch break with out packets of pills being popped, and semi transparent cups lined indecipherable dosage measurements having to be washed, filled, dispensed and washed again. A lazy lunch, and just in time I might add.
Our cast iron griddle was on the stove top making the choice of grilled cheese an easy and down right logical one considering there is a good mid January chill in the air; a bowl of soup with a grilled cheese is just what was in order. Leftover Chicken Tortilla soup from the night before warming in a pan, butter, Kosher Salt, Havarti and Potato Bread all neatly lined up on the cutting board awaiting assembly. It was then, upon opening the fridge to grab something or other, I saw it.
Perched expectingly on a half empty container of Humous, and innocently steadying itself gently on a head of Romaine. There was a peanut butter and honey sandwich made for one of the girls lunch earlier in the day. Immediately I was taken back 30 years to our kitchen on 75th Street, and knew what had to be done. A smile crept across my face before my hand even made it to the little treasure the Universe had left me. I unwrapped the sandwich, slathered it with an terribly unhealthy amount of butter and a generous dose of salt, and slapped it on the griddle. Within 30 seconds I could smell the peanut butter warming up, and shortly thereafter a drip of honey found it's way to the griddle releasing a heavenly Apiarian aroma I hadn't enjoyed in decades. Being a firm believer in the slow cooking of grilled sandwiches, it seemed as though an eternity passed before I could flip it over, let alone get it into my hands, but in the final tally it was worth the agonizing wait.
My wife had put a silly TV show on for us to chuckle at while we ate; I sat, literally, on the edge of my seat wondering why on earth it has been so long since I had a grilled peanut butter and honey in the middle of my plate. To make a now long story short, it is suffice to say this serendipitous little sandwich delivered on all accounts. It was salty. It was buttery. It was resplendent, replete, and without equal for this small town Minnesota boy, down to the last dollop of goodness I wicked off the plate with my finger.
Thanks for this one Mom, this perfect moment would not have been possible without you.
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