About six or seven months into our relationship I had what would be referred to as the Grilled Cheese Meltdown.
My computer was broken; he was trying to fix it (his valiant efforts failed). I decided to make us grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch while he worked. I burned them, threw the charred mess away and made a second batch. Burned those too. Let’s just say I was feeling a bit “hormonal” that day and threw kind of a tantrum. What started as burning lunch (twice) turned into a tirade about why I can’t do anything right ever and I’m a big fat failure yadda yadda yadda.
The look on his face was akin to the expression he had when I tossed the iced tea glass the other day. He didn’t know how to handle it.
I then rode my bike to the French deli, bought us some delicious sandwiches, and everything was ok. I hope one day I can stand to eat there again. Those are really good sandwiches.
In retrospect, that incident was most definitely a big strike in the “con” column when he was mulling whether or not to try and make it work with me. Do you blame him?
Anyway, I felt hungry for once today and decided to make the ultimate comfort food: a grilled cheese sandwich. I burned it, of course. I handled it better this time. I just made another one and watched it more carefully.
I could only eat half of it. At least that’s something.
sosincerely 