Blackberry Grilled Cheese Sandwich -- The Loaf That Carries Everything

Ten years. I said the number out loud to the photograph above the stove on Wednesday morning and it sounded like a stranger's number. Funeral potatoes in the oven. Mason, seventeen now, came in from the garage and ate his portion without saying anything. Noah, twelve, came in too and sat where Mason sat. Lily, fifteen, leaned in the doorway and watched me cook. Brandon stayed at the kitchen island and put his hand over mine for thirty seconds and then took it back. I did not cry this year. I did not plan not to cry. The grief is not gone. It has changed shape. Ten years.

The freezer is full. That is the first sentence of most of my weeks, and it remains the first sentence today. The week was a winter week, the kind where the light through the kitchen window arrives at a particular angle and the freezer hums in a different register depending on the temperature in the garage. I made notes in my prep notebook on Sunday afternoon, the way I always do: meal name, ingredient list, cost per serving, prep time, freezer instructions. Twenty-eight bags. Two hours and eleven minutes. A little slow this week, by my standards, but Brandon was helping and the conversation was good, and I have learned, slowly and against my own grain, that the conversation is sometimes the point and the time is sometimes a courtesy I extend to my husband for being willing to chop onions on a Sunday afternoon.

Brandon golfed Saturday morning, attended his executive secretary meeting Sunday morning, and did the dishes Wednesday night, which is the rhythm of our life now. We have been married a long time. The arithmetic of it is the arithmetic of my whole life. There were years we missed each other in the same room, and there are years we find each other in the silences, and this is one of the latter, and I am old enough now to know that the latter is the achievement and the former was the cost.

The recipe of the week was sandwich bread, which I have made some specific number of times in my life and have refined to a system that I now hand to other people in printed form. The version I made this week fed eight, cost under fifteen dollars, and required twenty-six minutes of active prep, which is within my requirements and not a coincidence. Sunday prep is twenty-eight bags. I time myself. The accountant never leaves. I have stopped explaining the freezer-meal philosophy to people who already follow my work, and I have stopped apologizing for it to people who do not. The philosophy is simple: tomorrow is coming whether you are ready or not. You can either be ready or not. I pick ready.

The children are doing what they do, which is the central report of every week of my adult life. Ethan is 21, finishing his mission in the Philippines. We have a countdown calendar on the fridge — Olivia's idea, executed in her handwriting, which is mine. Olivia is 19, at BYU studying elementary education — the path she chose at age seven and has not deviated from once. Mason, 17, is in Brazil on his mission. His weekly emails are short and full of jokes. He does not write much about the work. He writes about the food. Lily is 15, in high school, asking the kind of questions in Sunday School that make the teachers uncomfortable, which I find difficult and also, secretly, admirable. Noah is 12, in high school, deeply involved in the drama program — the Larson kid most likely to make a career out of being looked at. That is the family report. I do not have a system for these reports. I just listen and remember and call back when I said I would call back, which is most of the time and not all of the time, and the difference between most and all is the territory of motherhood.

I will close the laptop in a moment. I will go to bed. I will get up tomorrow. The freezer will be there. The photograph will be there. The work will be there. So will I.

The bread I made this week was always going to become something. That is the agreement I make with myself every Sunday — the loaf is not the end, it is the beginning of the week’s table. On Wednesday, ten years to the day, I wanted something that used that bread but asked a little more of it: something that had sweetness underneath the savory, something that felt like more than a lunch. This blackberry grilled cheese was the answer. It is not a complicated recipe. Neither is grief, really. Neither is love. They are just things that take time and heat and a willingness to stay at the stove.

Blackberry Grilled Cheese Sandwich

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

Ingredients

• 4 slices homemade or sturdy sandwich bread (about 1/2 inch thick)
• 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
• 3 oz brie or creamy havarti cheese, thinly sliced
• 1/3 cup fresh or thawed frozen blackberries
• 1 teaspoon honey
• 1/4 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves (optional)
• Pinch of flaky sea salt

Instructions

1. Prepare the blackberries. In a small bowl, gently crush the blackberries with a fork until they are broken down but still slightly chunky. Stir in the honey and thyme if using. Set aside.
2. Butter the bread. Spread softened butter evenly on one side of each bread slice. These buttered sides will face out toward the pan.
3. Assemble the sandwiches. On the unbuttered side of two slices, layer the cheese evenly. Spoon the blackberry mixture over the cheese, spreading gently to the edges. Add a pinch of flaky salt. Top each with the remaining bread slices, buttered side facing out.
4. Grill over medium-low heat. Heat a skillet or griddle over medium-low. Place sandwiches in the pan and cook 4—5 minutes per side, pressing lightly with a spatula, until the bread is deep golden and the cheese is fully melted. Do not rush — low and slow keeps the bread from burning before the center melts.
5. Rest and slice. Remove from the pan and let rest for one minute before slicing on the diagonal. Serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 420 | Protein: 14g | Fat: 22g | Carbs: 42g | Fiber: 3g | Sodium: 510mg