Bonnie Furlong lives and writes in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia.  Her lighthearted essays have appeared in The Northern Virginia Daily, The Winchester Star, and GreenPrints: The Weeder's Digest.

---

     I was leafing through the Washington Post Sunday Magazine when I spotted the words "grilled cheese" and a photograph of some high-priced chef's bizarre rendition of this homely sandwich. At first glance I thought the stack of golden circles, edged with what looked like ruffles of green mold, was the cheese, flanked as it was by two tiny triangles of toasted bread. Closer examination revealed that the triangles were the sandwich, and the golden circles were a horizontally sliced yellow tomato, layered with shredded lettuce (the mold). Superimposed on this disturbing sight was the memory of one of my most uncomfortable restaurant experiences.

     I was in one of those casual family-owned eateries, sadly dying out in this age of franchise restaurants, with my niece Mandy and her little brother Byron. Byron's culinary repertoire then, at the age of four, consisted of "grill cheese."

     In the beginning, my mother and I were puzzled by Byron's avowed passion for grilled cheese sandwiches because, although Mom and I made excellent sandwiches, using the sharpest cheddars and the creamiest longhorns, Byron wouldn't eat ours. (My mother occasionally takes a notion to insert a slice of tomato or onion, but I'm sure she wouldn't have inflicted this on an innocent child.) Anyway, Mom and I experienced almost simultaneous epiphanies one day and told each other, over the telephone, "American cheese!" From then on Byron got his sandwiches the way he liked them, and he ate every bite.

     But back to the restaurant.

     I am not one of those flashy, fussy restaurant patrons who demand better tables and send food back to the kitchen. I stick with the menu and I order what is familiar. So I still remember the sinking feeling in my stomach when a careful study of the menu revealed that grilled cheese sandwiches were nowhere on it. I explained this to Byron and began pointing out various delicious alternatives.

     Byron said, "Grill cheese."

     Mandy, always a helpful little girl, joined in the negotiations, pointing out the joy of cheeseburgers.

     Byron said, "Grill cheese."

     I had started a gentle discourse on the fact of life that you don't always get what you want when a waitress showed up to take our order. Then I did one of the bravest things I have ever done. I humbly asked her if it would be possible to order a grilled cheese sandwich for my little nephew.

     "Sure thing, hon," she said, and I made a mental note to double her tip, which I subsequently did.

     Byron, a boy of few words, settled back quietly in his chair to wait for his lunch, but I knew that in his mind he was thinking, with utter faith and contentment, "Grill cheese."

---

Find it here!