Welcome to the longest grilled-cheese sandwich recipe ever. We begin with a story of an eight-year-old boy’s lunchbox.
I used to like tomato soup. I would take it to school in a thermos. But then some tomato soup was left in my thermos. All summer. Come September I discovered a science experiment. Now I no longer like tomato soup, and I will not abide heathens who proclaim that a grilled-cheese sandwich be dipped in tomato soup. Fuck tomato soup.
Here is a long-ass story about my father that hopefully will be made better via the inclusion of profanity.
Despite us living in Calgary and him living in BFNW (butt-fuck nowhere) of northern British Columbia, I spent a lot of time at his house. His house was always devoid of junk food. At least in Calgary I could scrounge bottles and ride my bike to 7-Eleven. The nearest store to my dad’s place was six miles of gravel road away.
But there was always bread, butter, and cheese. So that’s what I often ate.
You know how people complain about recipes that take forever to get to the list of ingredients and how to make it because they begin with 1,500 words about their grandmother’s wedding dress? It’s a fucking grilled cheese. It’s bread, butter, and cheese. And you probably already know how to make it. Don’t pretend like that’s why you’re really here. Besides, I’ve been told by many people who read my motherfucking lasagna recipe that I get a by on long-ass recipe stories. So there.
Where was I? Oh, yeah. I was in butt-fuck nowhere.
Anyway, dads have a way of doing things. Mine. Yours. Me. Dads are often all about the “this is how we do this” and you better fucking listen.
So, you better fucking listen. Or not. I don’t care. I’m not your dad. But this is how I do it, as taught to me by my dad.
First, and most important:
· Butter, not margarine.
· Real cheese, not that processed pre-sliced shit that makes Homer go blind.
· Whole-wheat bread, not that Wondershit. Get the wide and sturdy slices too. The kind of bread that has some fucking heft to it. Not the flimsy crap. Cuz better.
My parents split when I was six. I’m sure the cheese had something to do with the divorce. Because the way my mom opens cheese gives me a motherfucking anxiety attack. She would just haphazard slice and tear down the package and then throw it in the fridge without properly wrapping it back up. Hell, it couldn’t be properly wrapped back up after the way she fucked the packaging. And then the end would get all hard and gross and you’d have to cut that part off and throw it out. Good thing she made lots of money.
My father did not make lots of money. And cheese is expensive. Don’t fucking waste it. Here, open it this way.
Then you might need to slide a knife up there to unseal it to get it to slide out to cut slices off it.
And then you fold the edge over and wrap an elastic band around it to seal it tight.
My father taught me this and my kids know that this is how it’s done, and woe betide the rapscallion who doesn’t do it right, for I will unload with a fatherly fury of “Who fucked up my cheese goddammit?”
Okay now this is how you make the fucker.
Do NOT preheat the pan.
Butter one side of both pieces of bread. Put a slice of bread butter side down on the pan. Slice up the cheese and put it on the bread. For total coverage you might need to do some creative cutting. Or nibbling. See that there? That’s got some nibbling done on it. I’m the chef and they’re my kids and I can fucking nibble if I want. Maybe don’t nibble during Covid though.
Put another piece of bread on top, butter side up. Only now can you turn on the heat. Set it to motherfucking medium. No higher. I used to cook these on a wood stove before my dad got propane. If I can manage this at the age of ten cooking with actual fucking fire, you can manage to not fuck this up by turning the heat too fucking high and getting burnt bread and not properly melted cheese.
Speaking of burning things, stay off your goddamn phone. Phones burn grilled-cheese sandwiches. Every. Fucking. Time.
Better to flip it too early than too late. But this requires some skill along with clean hands. You should have washed your hands at the beginning. We weren’t raised in a fucking cave. All my recipes: wash hands first. Wash hands again. And again. Because when it comes time to flip the sandwich the first time, you’re gonna have to touch it. (Yes, I know this is hypocritical as fuck after the whole nibbling thing.) If you just try to flip it when the cheese isn’t all melted yet, then it’s gonna fly apart and fucking cheese and shit everywhere and lots of swearing too.
So, you need one of those slotted flippers so you can look underneath. Lift the sandwich straight up and peak underneath and see if it’s getting brown. If yes, gently touch the edges of the top of the sandwich, flip upside down while holding it so the fucker doesn’t fall apart, take the flipper and put on the uncooked side that you’re holding the edges of, which is now facing down, and set it into the pan. That’s the only time you have to do that, because when you go to flip again it’s gonna be all melty ‘n shit and will stick together. Unless you somehow fucked it up but if you did don’t blame me because Jesus Christ how much more explicit can I be with this shit?
Anyway, no phone, keep an eye on it. You may want to press down on the top a bit to flatten it out. It’s okay to flip more than once until you get the desired level of cooking on both sides.
Take it out of the pan and DIAGONAL FUCKING CUT! I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL!
What I write next may be controversial, and I don’t fucking care. I’m Canadian and this is how we do it.
Serve it with ketchup.
As already mentioned, fuck your tomato soup.
I’m not even a big ketchup fan. I have it on two things only: grilled cheese, and hash browns. Everyone in my family eats these with ketchup and I promise we’re not serial killers or anything.
I’ve written a number of recipes in this style and had a lot of people tell me I should do a motherfucking cookbook. And that may happen one day, but [Aragorn voice] it is not this day. This day I want you to buy my sweary this-day history books. The fuck? I promise that sentence makes sense. I have written a couple of for real bestselling not bullshit bestselling history books titled ON THIS DAY IN HISTORY SH!T WENT DOWN and I’m pretty fucking proud of them and I’d be super fucking stoked if you bought one or two or seven. They do make great gifts. Links to buy and samples of what’s inside are here.
Check out the bitchin’ covers:
I WAS going to give a hearty ‘like’ to this article, because you (as always) nailed it...until fucking ketchup entered the picture. As a native of the Chicago area, I am fully qualified and entitled to declare that ketchup as a condiment is an abomination, and its use for anything outside of being mixed into meat loaf (ie. as an ingredient, not as a topping!) must be dealt with harshly, and without mercy. Fuck that shit.
...But have an awesome day because, this culinary monstrosity aside, you are awesome, entertaining, and a joy to read.
…Dear Mr. Fell… I immediately and fully identified with your writing style… I also have taken to heart the immediacy and friendly intimacy that’s generated with a nice “Ya know, ya got an’ ass like a water buffalo, but I love how it stretches yer yoga pants, an’ tha vertical stripes are a big-thumbs-up”, and so on and so forth. Though from a family of vast and rigid formal rules of expression and highly educated, I’ve always fought against the over-use of “formal English” versus “NORMAL English. How many people out there can promptly raise their hands and state, “YES! I’ve completely and in its entirety understood what you just said/wrote to me”, when they hear or read, “You, are a brobdingnagian and unsurpassed example of an unacceptably boorish and crude individual whose only recourse is to utilize matching boorish and crude speech for lack of necessary manners and breeding”?… I don’t know what the fucking percentages are here, but I’m pretty sure they’d jump to 100% if anyone hears/reads, “Ya gotta mouth like a shithouse, asshole!” I rest OUR case.
Life really is too short to waste it on giving any fucks whatsoever regarding how so very many people [very hypocritically] take umbrage with our style of prose, while habitually using place-holders like “F@#K”, et al, which are basically the same thing, only the “Fer Pussies” version; BTW, my last fuck available was given over 60 years ago, and counting.
As for the “ketchup on tha side”, my only suggestion is to shove the Heinz bottle so far up yer ass that they’re gonna hafta consider calling a very small, midget speleogist ta pry it out with a crowbar; you really should consider the split-pea soup [preferably with ham hocks in the ingredients] suggestion mentioned by another commentor.
BTW, amongst other things, I’ve been a cook and gastronome for 55 of my 67 years. While it doesn’t help pay tha bills, it does makes my rat-assed friends, especially their wives, most of whom can’t cook worth a fuck, happier than pigs in shit, and that’s enough for Yours Truly. One day we might consider holding a friendly “profane” recipe competition; whoever pisses off the most people, or gets excommunicated by the Pope, for their prose, wins. KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK.