5 second rule

One last bite.

It happened, just yesterday.

I went to hug my older son, and his eyes met mine. They met mine, on a level plane. 

He sprung back fast, but I sprung back faster. We both realized what this meant. 

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In early 1999, I'd eat grilled cheese every day. Working, and pregnant, I'd waddle up Church Street in Cambridge to the now-defunct Lee's Sandwich Shop and place my order. Grilled cheese, on white. No fries, no chips, no soup, no salad. Just grilled cheese, straight up, with two napkins, thank you very much.

I liked how it was gooey, but not over the top. How the cheese would ooze, and the bread would yield, and the butter would coat my lips with a thin, glossy sheen. It was a spectacular thing, this sandwich. There was nothing else like it.

That June, when Andrew was born, I knew the secret to his bright eyes and soft skin: he was 40 percent Colin, 40 percent me, and 20 percent grilled cheese.

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When Andrew stood before me yesterday, and I realized he'd caught me in height, I saw many things. Time, for one. How it skipped forward, crossing thirteen years like they were puddles, or hopscotch squares on a driveway. I saw such kindness in his eyes, too, such clarity of purpose. But I saw something else as well. 

I saw a grilled cheese sandwich.

So I reached for it. Through my past, through the years, through the restless nights and the unsure days, through the move out west and the back to work, through the new school and the soccer games, through the silly toys and the stories and the field trips and the tears, I reached for that goddamn sandwich like my life depended on it. I wanted just one more bite. Just a corner even, to feel that cheese pull away from my mouth.

But it was gone. It just was.

So I went to the stove, and I tried to figure out what was next.

John Cougar, Meatball Subs, and Me

The year was 1982, or thereabouts. My hair, frizzy. My braces, metallic. My whole look, somewhere between lanky giraffe and eager poodle, but not a show poodle with its coat just so, more a scruffy poodle who likes to roll in the grass but basically aspires to greater things.

But enough about me. Let's talk about meatball subs.

Because it was around this time that I discovered the strong pull of the meatball sub, that classic sandwich in which giant spheres of meat loll about in a crusty roll, with just enough cheese to increase your chance of a coronary.

That the meatballs are soused with tomato sauce, which oozes out of the sandwich and onto the table, your t-shirt, and your lap, somehow ups its value prop. This is not prissy food. This is tomboy food, or at least it was for me.  The me who, in 1982, spent a long time listening to Jack & Diane on an endless loop, dreaming that someday, somehow, someone might want to share a meatball sub with me, assuming that once my braces came off I'd be far cuter if only I could figure out how to get my frizzy hair under control, which, if you've ever met me, you've probably figured out by now that I never really learned how to do.

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Recipe for Classic Meatball Sub 

A fun little book called The Encyclopedia of Sandwiches by Susan Russo (Quirk Books, 2011) recounts the quirky lore of a wide array of sandwiches, from the commonplace (peanut butter and jelly) to the bizarre (the "chip buddy," a french fry and mayo sandwich).  When I saw the meatball sub, I was hooked.  I made very minor changes, only around the edges.

Makes enough meatballs for 6 to 8 sandwiches, or make fewer sandwiches and serve leftover meatballs with pasta

MEATBALLS: Preheat the oven to 400 degrees and line a rimmed baking sheet with foil.  Spray the foil.  Combine 1/2 pound each ground beef and ground pork in a large bowl with 1 cup breadcrumbs, 1/3 cup grated parmesan cheese, 1/4 cup chopped flat-leaf parsley, 1 beaten egg, and 1/2 teaspoon each salt and pepper. Mix until well-combined with one clean hand. Scoop into 1-1/2 inch balls and place on the prepared baking sheet. Bake for 20 minutes.

SAUCE: Meanwhile, make the tomato sauce. Heat 2 teaspoons olive oil in a medium pot and saute 2 diced shallots and 4 minced garlic cloves until translucent.  Stir in one 28-ounce can crushed San Marzano tomatoes and one 15-ounce can tomato sauce, 1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper, and 1 teaspoon salt.  Reduce heat to  medium-low and let bubble until the meatballs are ready.  Add the meatballs to the sauce (they need a bit more time to cook through, so don't nibble them yet) and simmer for 10 to 15 minutes longer.  Stir in 1/4 cup fresh minced parsley.

ASSEMBLY: Split 6 to 8 (or less, or more) rolls (I used Dutch crunch rolls) in half.  Pull out a bit of the doughy bread from the bottom rolls so the meatballs don't roll around.  For each sandwich, nestle about 4 meatballs in each roll, spoon on some tomato sauce, and top with a slice of provolone. Lay the roll tops face-up, and flat, alongside. Broil 2 minutes, or until the cheese melts and the rolls turn golden. Watch carefully.  Serve immediately.

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Julienne

If it wouldn't shred my lips and cause all sorts of aesthetic, bloody chaos, I might make out with my julienne peeler.  I can just see us, entangled in a passionate embrace, when all of a sudden I'd pull away and half my mouth will have turned to shoestrings. 

With carrots, though, and with cucumbers, jicama, long radishes, zucchini, and even beets, this unique hand-held tool (here's my julienne peeler) is quite versatile, and once you start using it you'll find yourself rather hooked.  In fact, if I liked fried potatoes, I'd probably spend all day long just running the thing over some russets.  I'd be like Big Anthony in Strega Nona, but instead of spaghetti I'd fill the house with potato strands until the door busted its hinges and all of Silicon Valley overflowed with hashbrown-ready starch. Pandemonium would ensue.  Techfolk would be forced to use their iPads as flotation devices and their motherboards as oars, weaving in and out of displaced Priuses on a sea of stringy spuds. 

An alternative plan, though -- especially for beginners not quite ready to inflict potato-armageddon on their neighbors -- would be this: brush your favorite flatbread (I like whole wheat naan) with olive oil on both sides and dust generously with salt and pepper.  Then grill just a minute or two per side, or until the bread's no longer floppy like an earlobe.  Pile high with carrot shreds and additional veggies of your choice.  I went with rounds of Early Girl tomatoes and English cucumbers above, but you can use anything you like, avoiding the knife altogether and shoestringing the entirety of your produce bin if so moved.  When you're done, hit the top with a little vinaigrette, salt and pepper, and wham! bam! all of a sudden you have yourself a colorful little open-faced salad sandwich.

I'll leave you with this hard-won advice: if you find yourself getting a little too attached to your new peeler, get a hobby. 

Mahjong? 

Wanted

 

The bad moodometer tick, tick, ticks.  Faster and faster, louder and louder, the pulse accelerates, crescendos, as the lunch hour nears, arrives, passes.  This is my downfall.  This, my Achilles heel.

If I could hire an assistant, it wouldn't be to file, pay bills, answer calls.  It would be to drag me like a caveman from my desk to the kitchen at noon each day for a superquick lunch.  No frouffy food's necessary -- just some cheese slapped on bread'll do fine.  On fancy days, yeah, we could expound on the theme, adding small porky nibbles or a slather of condiment, but the goal would remain thus: to get some food from the fridge to my belly in under 10 minutes, before I turn from a perky human into a fiery bloodsugarolopolous.  I'll even do the cooking.  My assistant's sole job would be to peel me from the laptop and shove me, hard, down the stairs. 

Any takers?  The pay stinks, and you'd have to deal with me, but otherwise it'd be a pretty sweet gig. 

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Recipe for Gooey Mozzarella Toasts with pancetta and quince

Here's what you need when you're starving and teetering on the edge of a moody cliff.  I know you may not have pancetta and quince paste hanging around, but if you do, you'll end up with a few exceptional little bites.  If you don't, melty cheese on bread is nothing to scoff at on its own.  Stop being such a snob.

Serves 1 or just maybe 2

1/4 cup finely diced pancetta
1 ounce quince paste (membrillo), available at some cheese shops and Whole Foods
4 ounces dense, dark German bread (about 3 slices)
2 ounces mozzarella, cut into slices
Coarse black pepper and quartered lime, optional

Crisp the pancetta over medium high heat.  Drain on paper towels.

Spread a thin layer of quince paste on each slice of bread.  Top with cheese.  Broil for a quick minute or two until cheese melts, and turns golden and bubbly, watching carefully to prevent burnage.

Sprinkle with crispy pancetta and a little coarse ground pepper, and squeeze with a little lime, if desired.

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Lavender

 
I can't in all honesty tell you what possessed me to stop at the table with the lavendery potatoes.  I mean, I'm happy to eat squash blossoms and sip chamomile tea.  I've even been known to strew edible flowers on salads.  But that's pretty much where I draw the line.  I'm not all, "Let's put daisies in the pudding and tulips in the brie!"  Thanks, but no.

So I was suspicious of the potatoes at a recent food event, at least at first.  The woman explained that she'd roasted them with lavender salt, and honestly, it took just a bite to admit that the flavors really worked.  So I bought the salt for a friend, and then, because I was jealous of my own magnanimousness, I bought some plain culinary lavender for myself.

Did I mention there'd been wine?

So I get home that night and think -- like any self respecting girl after a fun party -- oh mercy, what in heaven's name have I done?

Thank god for Twitter.  I put out a panicky "I have culinary lavender and now what????" missive and within moments food writer Amy Sherman of Cooking With Amy pinged back, "Very nice in shortbread or sugar cookies."

Alrighty then.

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Recipe for Lavender and Mint Ice Cream Sandwiches

Did you know that lavender and mint are sisters? Turns out they're from the same family, and they pair beautifully in this simple, pretty dessert.  I went easy on the lavender; you may up the quantity if you've got more bravado than I.  Thanks to Amy Sherman and Emily Luchetti's Classic Stars Desserts for inspiring the shortbread cookies.

Makes 3 dozen cookies, or 18 smallish ice cream sandwiches

8 ounces cold unsalted butter, cut into tablespoon-sized slices

1/2 cup sugar

1 cup all-purpose flour

1 cup white whole wheat flour

Pinch salt

3/4 teaspoon culinary lavender, plus additional for garnish

Mint ice cream (I used Haagen Dazs Five)

Cream butter and sugar on low speed in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment.  Beat 15 seconds.  Add the two flours, the salt, and the lavender and continue to beat on low for 3 to 5 minutes, or until the dough comes together.

Line two baking sheets with parchment or silpats.  Flour a board and a pin and roll out the dough to 1/4-inch thickness.  If the dough is sufficiently firm, use a 1-3/4-inch round cutter to stamp out circles and transfer to the lined sheets.  Refrigerate at least one hour.

(If the dough is too warm after you roll it out, halve it and carefully transfer the halves to separate lined baking sheets.  Refrigerate until firm, about 1 hour, then stamp out rounds as directed. Refrigerate rounds once more if necessary.)

Preheat the oven to 300 degrees.  Bake the shortbread rounds about 35 minutes, reversing the baking sheets halfway through to ensure even cooking.  Let cookies cool to room temperature on the sheets.

Once completely cool, place a small scoop of mint ice cream between 2 cookies and press gently.  Wrap sandwiches with plastic and keep frozen until ready to serve.  Sprinkle sides lightly with additional lavender, if desired.

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Extra

There are good leftovers, and there are bad leftovers.

Leftover soup?  Good.  Leftover French fries?  Very, very bad.  Roast chicken?  Good.  Dressed salad? A sloppy, wilted, tragic mess.

Until recently I would have put leftover fish in the "no, thanks" category, because re-warming a nice fillet -- particularly salmon -- risks overcooking it and obliterating its delicate flavor.  BUT, when you keep the leftovers cold, you avoid this problem altogether and can throw together, in two minutes flat, a sandwich so tasty it nearly eclipses whatever hot dish you'd bought it for in the first place.

In fact, this sandwich is reason enough to go slightly overboard when you visit the fish counter. 

Broil some salmon for dinner, or poach it, or grill it -- as you like -- then store the remainder in the fridge.  The next day's lunch will pretty much take care of itself.
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Recipe for Cold Salmon Sandwich with Lemon-Caper Mayo

Buy a little extra salmon the next time you're fillet-shopping and cook it all up at once. The next day, pair the cold leftovers with a hit of lemon-spiked mayo and briny capers for a fancy-looking lunch perfect for you and you alone.

Serves 1

1-1/2 tablespoons mayonnaise
3/4 teaspoon fresh lemon juice
2 teaspoons drained capers
About 4 ounces cold leftover (cooked) salmon fillet
1-2 slices good sourdough or French bread
Salad greens

In a small bowl, stir together the mayo, lemon juice, and capers.  Place the salmon between two slices of sturdy bread (or, for an open-faced sandwich, simply lay it atop a single slice), slather it with the lemon-caper mayo, and serve with fresh, crunchy salad greens.

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