If I am ever on death row, my last meal will be a grilled cheese. Crusty artisan bread grilled in lots of butter with melted Meunster and and Colby cheese, the two stringiest of cheeses.
Growing up, grilled cheese was our Saturday lunch meal. My dad would make Campbell's tomato soup, Mmm Mmm good, and grilled cheese with pickle and tomatoes. We'd dip the quartered sandwiches in the soup on fall days. My dad is not one to undercook, so there was always enough for two sandwiches. It was on Roman-meal wheat bread with cheddar cheese. My sister and I would see who could get their cheese to stretch the longest and then wrap the strands around the bread.
In high school, we would drive to G.D. Ritzy's for lunch quite often. Oh, G.D. Ritzy's, how I loved you. You deserve a post all of your own. The least expensive thing on the menu was a grilled cheese, which I could get for $2.24, just how much my allowance allowed me for lunch. I'd eat it with shoestring fries stolen from my sister, dipped in melted cheese.
In college, I worked at the YMCA in Estes Park doing food service. My parents would come up to see me and eat in the Pine Room. My mother still remembers the grilled cheese my friend, Mark, made her one day, as the best grilled cheese on the planet. In fact, to this day, if he comes up in conversation, we call him "Grilled Cheese," rather than Mark.
I spent one day in Brugges, Belgium, enjoying their Frenchy Dutchness. I had a croque monsieur, French for grilled cheese, in a little cafe with cute French waitresses and luscious looking pastries. It was so crunchy and light.
Now, I love experimenting with my grilled cheese. After a recent party, I had leftover brie, so I grilled it with raspberry jam on crusty, buttery white bread. Heaven. I think the streets of heaven are paved with cheese. I will spend the remainder of my life finding the best combination of bread to cheese to toppings. I will die a happy woman.