Butter Books

“Together, we construct the sandwiches, using a blend of muenster, because it was what her mother favored, and provolone, because Delilah thinks it adds a deeper flavor--- and liberally buttering the bread because, Delilah informs me, it's all about the butter.
"Now," she says, laying two sandwiches on the hot pan. "Here is where you learn that cooking involves all the senses. Taste, yes. But also sound. Listen. The butter is sizzling. No sound means it's not cooking the right way. The pan is either too low or too hot."
We listen to the sizzle.
"Sight," she says. "We need to see that beautiful butter hopping and bubbling around the edges of the pan."
Dutifully, I watch. How can I not? She is in total command.
"Smell." She wafts her hand over the pan, letting the warm scent of browning butter and bread wash over us. "This is more important when you're adding herbs and spices. Does the dish smell as it should? It's something you learn on the way. Flip the sandwiches."
I take the spatula from her and do as asked. The bread is perfectly browned.
"Feeling. You have to feel how the food is behaving. The texture of it. Now, with grilled cheese, you don't want to cook it too fast, or the cheese won't melt. Hear how the sound has dimmed?"
I nod.
"We need to add more butter; turn the heat down just a bit."
She walks me through the entire process, teaching me to control the heat, baby the sandwiches to get them how I want. All the time our shoulders are brushing, our moves in coordination for a common goal. A sense of calm spreads over me. I'm not thinking about work or the outside world. I'm not angry or empty. I'm filled up. I'm here, with her.
We get the sandwiches on plates, and she hands me a knife.
"The best part. Cutting it open." Her brow wings up in warning. "Only cut on the diagonal. Down the middle is a sin against grilled cheese."
"Please," I say, with feeling. "As if I'd sink so low." I make the first cut and am rewarded with a fine crunch of sound, followed by the ooze of gooey cheese. Perfection.
"Taste. Take a bite," Delilah urges with childlike excitement.
I take a bite.
"Close your eyes," she says. "Tell me what you think when you taste it."
You.
Me.
Delilah wearing braces, her thick hair pulled back in a tight ponytail that highlights the roundness of her face. Her gold eyes glaring at me from opposite her mother's kitchen table.
Home.
Safety.”
― Kristen Callihan, Dear Enemy