Apple-White Cheddar Grilled Cheese

Portland spring. The shiso pushing up. The first cherry blossoms on Mt Tabor. Yoga Tuesday and Thursday at the studio. The classes were full. The body was the body.

Miya, 9, can shape onigiri without falling apart. She uses wet hands. She knows the order without being told. I drank miso from Fumiko's chipped bowl. The chip fits my lip. The lip fits the chip. The bowl is the small daily ritual.

Asparagus blanched and dressed in dashi-soy-mirin. The first asparagus of the year. Spring on the plate.

Barbara called Sunday. We talked for twenty minutes. She told me about the play she is directing. I told her about the kitchen.

I made dashi at five. The day began.

Miya's old room is now my office. The desk is by the window. The shiso outside. The newsletter in progress. The afternoons are quiet.

The newsletter went out Sunday morning. The opening line took an hour. The piece took five. The piece was what it needed to be.

I wrote at the kitchen table from six to eight. The newsletter was forming. The opening sentence was the hard sentence — they always are. I rewrote it five times. The fifth time was the right time.

I cleaned the kitchen Sunday afternoon. Wiped the counters. Reorganized the drawer where the chopsticks live. Sharpened the knife. The reset was the reset.

I made onigiri for tomorrow's lunch. Three triangles. Salted plum in the center. Wrapped in nori. The cling wrap. The drawer where I keep them. The system.

A panic flicker Tuesday evening, brief, manageable. I breathed. I drank water. I went outside and walked around the block. The flicker passed. The body did its work.

I drove to Uwajimaya Wednesday. Kombu, bonito flakes, white miso, a small bag of mochiko for tomorrow's project. The store smells like home.

Miya is in elementary school. The Saturday Japanese school continues. She still complains. She is still going.

The rain in long sheets Tuesday afternoon. I made tea. I watched it from the porch. The cottonwoods on the next block were silver in the wet.

Made dashi at five-thirty AM. Ten minutes in the kitchen alone with the kombu and the bonito flakes. The day's first prayer.

Sunday farmers market in the rain. The vendors knew me. The Hood River apple stand had honeycrisps. I bought four pounds.

The cat was the cat. Mochi at fifteen sleeps most of the day. She still eats with enthusiasm. She still sits at the kitchen window watching the back garden.

I texted Miya a photo of the shiso. She texted back a heart and a single word: home.

Yoga Tuesday morning. The studio in Sellwood. Eight students. The class was the class.

Coffee with a friend Saturday morning. We talked about books, about kids, about the way our forties became our fifties. The talking is the thing.

The neighbor's dog barked at nothing for twenty minutes Sunday afternoon. The neighbor apologized. I told him I had been writing through it and the white noise was helpful. He laughed.

A reader sent me a handwritten card this week. Her grandmother had cooked Japanese food in 1970s Boise. She had felt alone in it. The newsletter, she wrote, made her feel less alone. I taped the card to the wall above my desk.

Tomi watered the garden Saturday morning. The shiso was head-high. The shishito peppers were producing. The kabocha was running on the fence.

Therapy Tuesday. We talked about the wedding. We talked about Barbara. We talked about Fumiko. The hour passed. The work continues.

I read for an hour Sunday night. A book of essays by a Korean-American writer about food and grief. I underlined a paragraph that said exactly what I had been trying to say in the newsletter for months.

I bought four pounds of honeycrisps at the Hood River stand that Sunday and carried them home through the rain, not entirely sure what I was going to do with all of them. The asparagus had already had its moment earlier in the week — dressed in dashi, quiet and right. But the apples sat on the counter and kept asking. This sandwich was what came of it: sharp white cheddar, a tart crisp apple, bread that goes golden in butter. It is not Japanese food. It is just what I made. The kitchen does not always need a reason.

Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 10 minutes | Total Time: 15 minutes | Servings: 2

Ingredients

4 slices sturdy sandwich bread (sourdough or country white)
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
4 oz sharp white cheddar, thinly sliced
1 medium honeycrisp apple, cored and sliced thin (about 1/8-inch)
1 teaspoon whole-grain or Dijon mustard (optional)
Pinch of flaky salt

Instructions

Prep the bread. Lay out all four slices of bread. Spread a thin layer of softened butter on one side of each slice. If using mustard, spread it on the unbuttered side of two slices.
Layer the filling. On the unbuttered (or mustard) side of two slices, layer half the white cheddar, then a single layer of apple slices, then the remaining cheddar. Top with the remaining bread slices, buttered side facing out.
Cook low and slow. Heat a skillet or cast iron pan over medium-low heat. Place sandwiches in the pan. Cook 4–5 minutes per side, pressing gently with a spatula, until the bread is deep golden and the cheese is fully melted.
Rest and slice. Remove from heat and let rest 1 minute before slicing. Finish with a pinch of flaky salt on top. Serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Apple-White Cheddar Grilled Cheese — The Honeycrisps I Carried Home in the Rain