Ham and Brie Melts

March. Spring. The PCS to San Diego is four months away. The packing instinct has activated early — I'm not boxing things yet, but I'm THINKING about boxing things, which is the military wife version of nesting. The second book research took me to Detroit this week (Soo-Jin watched the kids; Ryan was on base). I flew to Michigan to interview a woman named Deandra — a single mother of four who cooks in a food desert on the east side of Detroit. The nearest grocery store is three miles away. She doesn't have a car. She takes two buses with her groceries. And she feeds her family three meals a day, from scratch, because processed food costs more and fresh food is worth the bus ride. Deandra's kitchen: small, old, with a stove that has two working burners out of four. She makes collard greens that would make Miss Evvie proud. She makes cornbread in a cast iron skillet that's been in her family since her great-grandmother. She makes everything with the same stubborn competence that Mom brings to her kitchen. 'People think poor people eat bad food because they don't know how to cook,' Deandra said. 'That's a lie. Poor people eat bad food because good food is far away and expensive. But when I CAN cook — when I have the ingredients and the time — I cook GOOD. I cook REAL. My kids eat greens and cornbread and beans and rice and they eat WELL.' Poor people eat bad food because good food is far away. Not because they can't cook. Because the system is broken. Because a food desert is a policy failure, not a personal one. The chapter writes itself. Deandra's voice is strong, clear, angry in the right way. The way the book needs to be angry: at systems, not at people. At the world that makes cooking difficult, not at the women who cook anyway. Flew home Sunday. The kids were alive (Soo-Jin's report: 'Caleb told me seventeen stories about dinosaurs. Hazel ate everything I put in front of her. Both survived.'). Ryan had made dinner — his spaghetti, the one that's getting good. Made Mom's pot roast Monday night. The coming-home food. The re-entry food. The food that says 'I'm back in the kitchen and the kitchen is where I belong.' The pot roast. The kitchen. The belong. Always.

Deandra cooks with two working burners and a cast iron skillet older than she is, and she feeds her kids well — that stayed with me the whole flight home. Coming back to my own kitchen Sunday night, I wanted to use what I had, make something real, and not overthink it. Monday was for Mom’s pot roast. But Sunday, still travel-tired and full of Deandra’s voice, I made these Ham and Brie Melts: fast, warm, and exactly right for the moment between away and home. Sometimes re-entry food doesn’t have to be a project. Sometimes it just has to be good.

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

Ingredients

4 slices sourdough bread (about 3/4 inch thick)
6 oz deli ham, thinly sliced
4 oz Brie cheese, rind on, sliced 1/4 inch thick
2 tbsp Dijon mustard
2 tbsp unsalted butter, softened
1/4 tsp black pepper

Instructions

Butter the bread. Spread softened butter evenly on one side of each bread slice. This is the side that will hit the pan.
Build the sandwiches. On the unbuttered side of two slices, spread 1 tbsp Dijon mustard each. Layer half the ham on each, then shingle Brie slices over the ham. Season with black pepper. 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 both sandwiches in the pan and cook 4—5 minutes, pressing gently with a spatula, until the bottom is deep golden brown.
Flip and finish. Flip the sandwiches carefully and cook another 3—4 minutes, pressing again, until the second side is golden and the Brie is fully melted and soft through.
Rest and slice. Remove from heat and let sit for 1 minute. Slice diagonally and serve immediately while the Brie is still molten.

Nutrition (per serving)

Ham and Brie Melts — The Coming-Home Sandwich