Will Grilled Cheese Cure Your Melancholy? - Culinary School Over 40, Pt. 4
I almost threw in the towel after the last class broke me physically. I need something to believe in again or call it quits for good. (And a bonus soup recipe because, why not?)
I am closer to 45 than 40 years old and have been a pariah in my own kitchen for my entire life. My pots and pans call out in anguish as I abuse them, scraping their innards with metallic utensils, and then scouring their delicate surfaces with harsh cleansers. Brave vegetables and proteins stand on the sides of these same pans and recite their last rites before plunging themselves into this sizzling inferno in which all positive qualities of their existence are scorched straight to Hell, leaving only charred remains, burned-in carbon stains that never come out despite my best attempts.
Now I’m in Culinary School. What could go wrong?
Apparently quite a lot. I am at the local hospital on a cold table under an x-ray machine pointed at my genitals. I don’t want children anyways, especially if I have to cook for them.
“Mr. Biggers, could you please lay on your left side?” the technician asks me after taking a few pictures of my pelvis area. There’s a quip here about x-ray machines making things look smaller on film than they are in real life, but I am a gentleman and not in a joking mood.
I turn on my side with a firm cushion placed between my knees. “Thank you, now please hold that pose.”
I texted my older brother Mike, a former professional chef turned management consultant, earlier in the morning, “Last class was brutal. Made so many things, so much clean up. Was super sore the next day.”
He responded quickly, “Love it!! A day in the kitchen is 12-15 hours.”
Love it? I was expecting empathy or “Hang in there, champ,” but apparently he loved the lifestyle and the unforgiving physical grind was a badge of honor for him.
I didn’t want to disappoint him, so I did not text back. A typical workday in the kitchen is 12-15 hours? My ability to survive, let alone thrive, in this industry was in doubt.
Now I’m lying on my side in a hospital after I told my doctor that the pain I experienced during the previous classes had not subsided. The pain went beyond muscle soreness and was located in my hips and lower back, hence the x-ray machine pointed at my pelvis.
The technician came out from behind her protective barrier. “Now let’s get pictures of the right side.” I rolled over and she maneuvered the machine overhead until the lights lined up on my right hip and then she retreated back behind the barrier.
Why don’t I need a protective lead blanket if it’s a “safe” level of radiation while the person performing the x-ray hides behind a wall? “Okay, hold still, please.” The machine clicks.
She takes a few moments to confirm the images. “Okay, these look good. You can put your clothes back on. I’ll send these to your doctor.”
My doctor emailed me the results later in the day.
“Matt, your x-rays revealed mild disc height loss most pronounced at the lumbosacral junction with evidence of osteoarthritis in your lumbar spine. It also showed evidence of bilateral hip osteoarthritis. We discussed taking Aleve as needed but you may need something stronger. Physical therapy is always an option to help strengthen the back muscles.”
Isn’t arthritis a condition that impacts the elderly? Am I elderly?! Apparently my body and medical science say yes.
I reply to his message and say I will need something stronger as Aleve was not effective for me. I omit that I am too undisciplined for physical therapy, not to mention strapped for time juggling two jobs and school.
He prescribes me 7.5mg of Meloxicam which I bring to my next class packed in with my knife kit and kitchen scale.
I arrived to class at 8:15am, silently praying that this week would consist of us cooking while seated in tall stools with supportive back rests. I had decided in advance that if Chef Jim mentioned deboning a chicken to roast its bones I would have no choice but to hurl a throwing star at his forehead.
Chef Jim, “We’ll be making soups and sandwiches today…” yes, YES, YEEESSSSS!
“…different takes on a grilled cheese…” Oh. My. God. Am I going to be a chef? Is culinary school the best thing ever?
“…tomato soup, Panera Bread’s broccoli and cheddar soup recipe…” Is this a dream? What are the side effects of Meloxicam? Stomach bleeding, sure, but not hallucinations.
These are Ashley’s favorite foods and I’m going to learn to make them from scratch?! This is why I signed up for culinary school in the first place. I was about to save my marriage fulfill my promise to help out more in the kitchen, but never would have expected that this would be in the form of her favorite sandwich and two favorite soups.
Students moved quickly to claim their stations as each had a different soup and sandwich. I was late to the game and was assigned the ‘Bean & Bacon Soup’ station. Ashley is not a bacon fan (“it’s too fatty!”) and now I’m getting a divorce.
Have you met anyone whose favorite soup is Bean & Bacon? Do they have horrific gas and are perpetually single? Exactly.
My classmates and I gathered our ingredients from the supply room and refrigerators and diligently chopped tomatoes, julienned our carrots, and even those of us resigned to Bean & Bacon soup made valiant efforts to prepare something delicious.
Did my Bean & Bacon soup turn out better than I anticipated? Yes. Did I bring home the leftovers? No.
I grabbed a copy of the recipes for the tomato soup and a take on Panera Bread’s broccoli and cheddar soup so I could make them at home for Ashley someday. I have included the Panera Bread soup recipe at the bottom of this post if you are interested.
The next dish sounded easy enough - grilled cheese sandwiches. This is when I planned to swoop in as some kind of Culinary Deity, more myth than man, and show everyone that melting cheese between two pieces of buttered bread is, in fact, high art.
This was one of the first dishes I learned to cook. My father taught me when I was still in elementary school, and his recipe was simple enough. Slather Betty Crocker margarine (remember margarine?) on two slices of white bread, unfold two slices of generic brand “cheese” singles from their plastic sleeves, insert the cheese product between the bread, and sauté in a pan until the cheese melts.
My father also taught me how make pancakes with Bisquick mix, but his crowning culinary achievements passed on to me were truly special. No one overcooks biscuits from a can quite like Dad, or turns soft gooey cinnamon rolls (also from a can) into hard burned lumps with raw centers.
Fortunately, these cooking skills are genetic and I now carry the torch for the next generation.
Over the years, I adapted my father’s grilled cheese to include real butter and actual cheese. Now it was my time to shine in front of my classmates, to show them that I was not the worst chef in class, but a caterpillar whose metamorphosis was about to begin.
Papaw, can you hear me? Are you watching? Your baby boy is gonna make you proud.
He’s not dead or anything, he’s just in Texas. I feel I owe him one after being a terrible disappointment in Little League. There wasn’t a position on the field which did not involve me watching ground balls shoot between my legs, costing my team valuable runs and pouring public shame upon my family.
We had so many great options to choose from: an Italian grilled cheese with mozzarella and tomato (yum!), Southwest grilled cheese with spicy chili, sharp cheddar, and served on Texas toast (I’m a Texan!), or brie and apple tart grilled cheese (I love brie cheese!). My goodness, which one should I choose?
My father whispered in my ear from Heaven Texas, Make me proud, son. Honor thy heritage, honor me.
“Hold on, Dad, I’m coming home.” The Southwest Grilled Cheese was mine!
Today you become more than a son, you become a chef.
The Little Leaguer was dead, the caterpillar finally broken free from his cocoon. Were those wings? No, it was an incredibly stylish chef’s coat.
I believe in you.
A tear forms in the corner of my eye, but I don’t have time for tears. I rush to the supply table to claim my ingredients, but I am too late.
Texas toast? No, but there are a few slices of squished wheat bread.
Sharp cheddar? Bzzz, try again. How about some stringy mozzarella cheese that doesn’t melt?
A spicy chili, maybe a tomato? Get your head out of the clouds. Here’s a half pound of raw bacon instead.
Son…what’s happening?
“Shut up, I’m working.”
“Excuse me?” the student next to me asks.
“Nothing, sorry.”
The other student and I are at adjacent stations. He places a pan on a burner, turns on the heat, and throws in a chunk of butter to melt. The butter melts and he adds two slices of bread and piles cheese and his other sandwich ingredients on top of the bread. He places a pot lid on top of everything.
Wait, what’s happening? That’s not not how Papaw taught me. A little in shock, I ask the other student, “Why are you putting the bread in first? Aren’t you supposed to put butter on it before you put it in the pan?” Yeah, jerkface, that’s what my Papaw taught me.
“Nah, nah, nah. This is easier. The cheese melts faster under the pot lid, and your bread isn’t so greasy. It has a little extra crisp to it because you can control how much butter you put in the pan.”
So you’re telling me that I don’t have to roughly spread butter (or Betty Crocker margarine) over the surface of two bread slices, ripping each slice to shreds in the process?
“Interesting,” or do I mean world-changing?
Don’t listen to him, son. He lies.
I add my bacon to a hot pan and cook it crispier than usual so the texture contrasts nicely with the gooey cheese, and set it aside once cooked.
In a new pan, I add butter, wait for it to melt, and then the two slices of squished wheat bread.
My God, what are you doing?
I ignore him and add a layer of the low budget shredded mozzarella cheese to each slice of bread.
I place the crispy bacon on my cutting board and roughly chop it into large pieces, but small enough so I can fit multiple pieces on the sandwich. I evenly distribute these bacon pieces on one of the bread slices in the pan and then place the pot lid on top.
This is heresy.
No, Papaw, it’s Culinary School and I’m a chef now.
The finished product turns out well; the bread isn’t greasy and has crisp edges, the cheese didn’t fully melt, but that’s the cheese’s fault, not mine, and making the bacon extra crispy contrasted nicely with the cheese as planned.
Papaw, wherever you are…
I’m not dead, I’m in San Antonio.
…I did it. I made my own version. I know you taught me another way, but this way feels right for me.
Are we still talking about sandwiches?
Maybe.
Perhaps the best we can do is make our own versions of grilled cheese. The grilled cheese you can make, even if others think it’s missing a few ingredients, is the best you’ll ever have. Take a bite and enjoy it.
Until Next Time
Thanks for stopping by and please subscribe, read my other Culinary School posts, or watch my videos on YouTube. Keep scrolling down for the broccoli and cheddar soup recipe. I hope your significant other enjoys it!
Panera Bread’s Broccoli & Cheddar Soup
Ingredients:
¼ cup melted butter
½ medium chopped onion
¼ cup flour
2 cups Cream
2 cups Chicken stock
¾ lb. broccoli
1 cup julienned carrots
¼ teaspoon nutmeg
8 ounces sharp cheddar (2 cups shredded)
Salt and pepper
Preparation:
Heat a soup pot on the stove at medium.
Melt the butter in a pot, and add the chopped onion. Sauté the onion till soft.
Add the 1/4 cup of flour and cook for 2 minutes.
Pour the cream and the chicken stock into the pot and whisk. Allow it to thicken.
Add the broccoli and carrots, reduce the heat to low, and cook for roughly 20 minutes till tender.
Add the cheese and keep the temperature at low. Allow the cheese to melt and stir occasionally to distribute it throughout the soup.
Add the nutmeg, stir it in, and then salt and pepper to taste.
Garnish with the leftover carrots and shredded cheese.