Grilled Cheese

“Can we have grilled cheese and tomato soup?” I asked, a hopeful smile glued to my face.

The combination was my favorite. Nothing fancy, mind you. White bread, a slice of generic processed cheese, and a half-water, half-milk reconstituted can of Campbell’s.

“Tonight is taco night,” my mom replied flatly.

I knew that, of course, because it was Thursday. We always had tacos on Thursday. My parents were nothing if not organized. Meals were treated the same as the budget, cleaning, laundry, and yardwork — each activity had its time and place.

Saturdays, for example, were for yardwork and laundry. My brothers and I were expected to bring our “dirty clothes” to the service porch prior to starting our chores outside. While mom did the wash, we worked with my Dad sweeping the garage, pulling weeds, raking leaves, picking up dog poop, and cutting the lawn. One time per month, on the same day, they’d sit together at the kitchen counter entering receipts into a ledger book. They kept track of every penny spent, balancing expenses against my Dad’s modest paycheck. Food-wise, we typically had a casserole or, during my teen years, a meal made in a Crock-Pot.

Sundays — no question — we went to church. It was pretty much an all-day affair. It was also the day we ate a roast with mashed potatoes She’d put the meat in the oven to cook before we left the house. To be fair, the vegetable did vary a bit, although most often we had carrots cut rondelle style. My brothers loved this meal. I hated it. Large, thin, brownish-grey slices of “rump roast” — blech — a cut my mom never failed to remind me was “dear.”

On Mondays, we had leftovers, the only saving grace being my Dad’s oven-roasted, mashed-potato cakes. To make the reheated carrots and roast beef palatable, I’d douse them both with Worchestershire sauce. My parents often questioned my choice of condiment, but ultimately didn’t interfere. I suppose it was because I was eating the vegetables without complaint.

Tuesdays were a toss up. Patties made from canned salmon, served with peas or green beans (usually canned but in later years, frozen), and Uncle Ben’s rice. On occasion, we’d have some version of frozen fish (i.e., sticks or pre-battered fillets) broiled in the oven. Later, much later, I learned the fish option depended on whether it had been on sale or there’d been a coupon in the newspaper.

Wednesday was either “breakfast for dinner” or a dish my Mom called, “macaroni and hamburger.” She had a late afternoon church meeting on this day, so my Dad cooked these meals entirely on his own.

Finally, on Fridays we ate out. Mc Donald’s for me and my brothers, an In-and-Out Burger “Double-Double” for my Mom and Dad. Given that we rarely went to restaurants, eating in our car, parked alongside scores of other families doing the same, was a thrill. Still, I would have chosen tomato soup and a grilled cheese over a burger and fries had that been an option.

Growing up, I never was able to predict when my favorite meal might be served. It certainly wasn’t associated in any clear or direct way with a request on my part. For many years, I believed it was probably a matter of ease and convenience — a tradeoff between taking the time to prepare something balanced and healthy with the need to get food on the table as quickly as possible.

That is, until a recent conversation I had as an adult with my own family. We were talking about what to make for dinner.

“How ‘bout grilled cheese and tomato soup?” I suggested wearing the same hopeful smile I’d displayed since I was eight years old.

“What?!” I asked on meeting their silent stares.

“Well …,” they answered, “we don’t really like it.”

With that, I fell quiet. You don’t like grilled cheese and tomato soup? Honestly, the thought had never occurred to me.