30/30 WTF! #7: EAT-YOUR-FEELINGS GRILLED CHEESE

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Happy Valentine’s Day.

Now go screw yourself.

While the rest of you happily coupled crap-weasels are off eating chocolate and toasting with champagne, my soul mates — my single brethren and sisteren  and fuck you I know that’s not really a word — will be home, watching “Sleepless in Seattle” and wondering why Rosie O’Donnell was never taken seriously as an actress, or reliving the series finale of “FRIENDS” on DVD, shouting along with Ross at his answering machine, “Get off the PLANE, Rachel!”

And eating comfort food.

Me, I’m stuck with waffles, because I promised you 30 frigging days of waffles. And unlike every man who’s ever told me he loved me, I keep my word.

So I figured I’d make it a good, comfort food waffle so we could stay on-topic with this Experiment, but still hit all those places in our souls and hearts that we think should be filled with a doting partner but are, in reality, better served by a glop of melted cheese.

And so many people have told me about growing up with this as a common method of sandwich making that I decided to stop judging and feeling sorry that they only had one appliance in the kitchen, which they forced into a servitude for which it was never designed (I also had a college roommate who made soup in the coffee pot and ate it with a butter knife) and to give the process a whirl.

I’m giving you options in this one because honestly, I don’t know if I care to leave the house today to hit the grocery, so whatever the hell is in the refrigerator will have to do. Then again, other single, lonely men who at least have their shit a little more together (enough to be seen at the Food Emporium, or to stop crying long enough to go out and fetch a new box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and half gallon of chocolate milk at the Duane Reade) will sort of be milling about… vulnerable prey… ripe for the pickin’…

Enjoy this. I’m now contemplating putting on a pair of skinny jeans and heading out for… supplies…

“To market, to market, to buy a fat pig”

Aww, who the hell am I fooling. A few more of these and I’ll be my own fat pig.

2 Slices unhealthy, white bread
(if you dare use whole wheat, I’ll beat the shit out of you. White. Processed.
I want to hear my coffin lid creaking as I chew this sandwich)
1/2 to 1 Tbsp. Dijon mustard
(I have nothing funny to say here. Dijon is a very serious condiment)
1/2 Cup shredded cheddar
(or any other cheese you have or want. See if I give a fuck. It’s not always
about you. Just make sure it is FULL FAT. None of that nonfat plastic shit
I usually pretend is just as good. It’s not. The only thing it’s ”just as” is orange)
2 Slices boiled, Virginia, or black forest ham. Or turkey. Or whatever cold cut
meat selection you buy by the 1/4 lb. from the ever-cheerful deli man who
silently feels bad that you’re still shopping for one. Or use 3 or 4 strips of
cooked bacon. Knock yourself out. Who have we got to stay thin for?
Butter (however much you want to use to –get this — butter the bread)

Waffle Iron Setting/Cook Time: HONESTLY, DOES IT REALLY MATTER?
NOBODY IS HERE TO SEE HOW THIS TURNS OUT AND YOU’RE JUST
GOING TO STAND THERE EATING OVER THE SINK IN YOUR BATHROBE
AND WASHING IT DOWN WITH DIET COKE OR SKIM MILK STRAIGHT
FROM THE CARTON ANYWAY

Spray the waffle iron. Because that’s what this recipe calls for: non-fat cooking spray, to keep the calories to a minimum.

Butter one slice of bread and place it butter-side down on the griddle. Spread on  the mustard, and top with half the shredded cheese. Lay the meat over that, and then top with the remaining cheese. If your sandwich is being, like the last guy you dated, belligerent and uncooperative, press it gently with your fingers. This will keep the fillings in place, but it won’t convince it to get a job or to stop leaving its fucking underwear in the middle of the floor. Finally, butter the second slice of bread and place it on top.

Close the lid. Push with all your might. Force it if you have to. Screaming “why can’t you just fucking love me for who I am and stop waiting for me to hurt you like your father,” I find, does nothing to enhance the cooking results, but it feels God-damned great.

When it’s done, act like you always do: keep waiting for it to get better instead of taking it off the heat when you first sense you should. Let it start getting over done so that both you AND the sandwich start feeling resentful. And then when you finally DO decide to get off your ass and do something about it, screw the God-damned forks and spatulas — just use your fucking fingers, so you REALLY get burned. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. ALL your friends warned you. But would listen? Fuck no, you moron.

Cut it into wedges so you look dainty eating it in front of the bathroom vanity mirror. Finger foods are never as fattening. Enjoy it however you like, but really — at this stage in life can you enjoy ANYTHING anymore?

And a note to all those lovebirds with your chocolates and your champagne: they say chocolate stimulates the same neurological reactions as being in love. So if your relationship was really that good, you wouldn’t NEED the chocolate to feel loved. And face it, friends: expensive as hell and frou-frou out the hoo-hoo as it may be, champagne is just bubbly liquor and you’re obviously both drinking to make it easier to spend yet another god-damned night together.

I’ve got my grilled cheese sandwich.

And look… Oh my God you guys, she did it! Rachel…

You got off the plane….