Let me teach you the secrets to making a God-level grilled cheese

You'll never be a God. However, you can eat grilled cheese like one. 

I was once a mortal, just like you, until I created God-level-grilled cheese. Its origin starts with my pops, just like many of my go to recipes that I rarely jot down. I cook like my dad, run my mouth like him, slam around the pots and pans like him, blast the music at a disturbing level like him, and even turn the burners up too high — just like him.

"You are going to burn the house down!" My wife Caron yells, reaching for the stove in an attempt to save us. I block the oven, shielding it from her.

"Hey baby, with love," I say, defending my method, "I don't bother you when you are making spaghetti. So can you please give a brother a little space?" 

She gasps while rolling her eyes until they bounce off of the top of her head while walking away. And sometimes she is correct: the burner is too high, and I set off every fire alarm in our zip code, but so what? Because my father did, too, and a little alarm never hurt anybody. I can take the sound of 2000 smoke detectors screaming until the batteries are drained and their wires popped out if it meant that I would be enjoying a God-level-grilled cheese. 

And while Dad's grilled cheese was damn good, it wasn't God-level. That wouldn't come until later. 

As a delinquent, I was subjected to a year of homeschooling, also known as tel-la-teaching. This was the early 90s before everyone had a computer, so we operated solely on house phones. Tel-a-teaching required us to dial into four classes, using four different phone numbers, four times a day. My subjects were math/ science, English, history and Spanish. 

My dad worked nights, so he'd kick it with me on some days while I dialed in. Sometimes he giggled and made fun of my seriousness, "Boy, ya big head ass ain't doing no work!" Sometimes he'd tell me to hang up and watch Jerry Springer with him. Occasionally he'd check my grades and say, "Don't f**k around and fail!" And sometimes, he'd slam those pots around so loud that my teachers would disconnect me for being disruptive. 

The only thing consistent at those times was Dad cooking. He fried crab cakes, baked crab balls and sliced up hoagies. He whipped up tuna fish, pepper steak, and often, grilled cheese with a side of tomato soup. Remember, dad's grilled cheese wasn't God-level. However, tomato soup––  especially the kind that doesn't come from a can — is always the right side for God-level-grilled cheese. 

It's not God-level if tomato soup isn't the side–– like, if the grilled cheese is Jesus, then the tomato soup is all 12 disciples. 

Dad used canned soup that he heavily seasoned or fresh tomato soup from a spot in the Northeast Market that he still spiced up. He made his grilled cheese using a chunk of butter, and two slices of American from the deli on Martin's potato bread or rye bread. And even though I grew to hate American cheese, which I call the SPAM of all cheeses, his recipe worked. The result always left me wanting more especially when considering his bread choices. I was the only kid on my block who ate rye bread, my friends would say "Those little seeds look like mice s**ts." I laughed. I still love rye bread and Martin Potato bread is baked nostalgia and will forever be classic. 

Dad used a cast iron, cut the burner 50-degrees past hell, and plopped in a chunk of butter, allowing enough to melt, ultimately coating the pan. Then he set two pieces of bread in, placing a slice of that American on each. Dad had to watch the pan like a hawk because as soon as the texture of the cheese appeared to soften, he had to join the two bread slices into one, smashing them together, hoping the sandwich didn't get too dark from cooking on high. The second sandwich always cooked faster because he's never turned the dial to low. 

Those sandwiches were as good as the house was smoky and I enjoyed them for years, all the way up until I was about to finish high school and realized I didn't need cheese. I had abandoned dairy because it bothered my stomach, and that decision led me to being in the best shape of my life. Ditching dairy made the pounds fall off, and even allowed me to grow abs, which is crazy because I never had abs. Dad would continue to offer me a grilled cheese, and I quickly said, "Hell no." I was free–– and then I met some white people. Those goddamned white people. 

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I was out living my dairy free life, enjoying my abs and healthy digestive system, when LaTonya, a woman I dated in my early 20s asked me to take her to this fancy restaurant. 

"The place is so so nice," LaTonya said, "It's by the water, and I think you have to wear church shoes to get in!" 

"No, no, LaTonya," I laughed, "I don't need church shoes to get in. I have cash." 

So, they sat us at the bar because I didn't have proper attire–– no jacket, no church shoes. She was upset until we met the too-cool bartender, an 8-foot white dude with bangs that made us all kinds of exciting drinks, using mixes and fresh juice combinations that he claimed to create. And we drank and drank and drank, so much that we wanted dessert. I ordered some cake-ice-cream thing I couldn't pronounce, and while we waited, a white lady approached us with a cheese tray. Before I could wave her off, she named eight different types of cheese. I felt embarrassed because I had only heard of American, Swiss, pepper Jack and cheddar. I mean, mozzarella is on pizza, but no one called it mozzarella, We just said, "cheese pizza." 

The waiter recommended some cheese, and like a dummy, I tried it, and like a sucker, I fell in love with fancy cheese, and like a dairy addict–– I have been hooked ever since. Goodbye abs, may you rest in peace. I haven't seen them since. 

And when the level of cheese one consumes elevates, it is only natural that the grilled cheese sandwiches they consume elevate as well. For years I have experimented with different kinds of butter, olive oil, breads, and cheeses. After about a decade of undocumented research, backroom deals, and near-death experiences, I found the perfect combination and what has grown to become God-level-grilled cheese. 

One of the main differences between what I grew up on and what can be defined as God-level is the burner. You must cook on low. Dad would cringe, however, this is extremely important, as you cannot rush greatness. So yes, I broke away from dad and learned to let the fire burn low. 

But Dad had it right with the way he butters the cast iron, with that old-fashioned butter. None of that salt-free, "healthy," chemically-modified margarine crap. Just regular, not-good-for-you, salty butter. Potato bread is always a good choice, being as though we are from the street; in most hoods, potato bread and Hawaiian rolls are like the Cadillacs of bread. 

However, if you want to play on this level, you must use fresh Challah bread. You must respect the Challah and know how to cut the Challah–– not too thick, not too thin. 

So cut the burner on low, heating up the cast iron. Add a few tablespoons of butter, and let them sit long until they melt and coat the pan. Then gently place your Challah in, with a healthy slice of white cheddar on one side and a healthy slice of Munster on the other. Allow the two kinds of cheese to soften. Then you must sprinkle sea salt on the white cheddar and drizzle organic honey on the Munster, before combining them and slightly smashing. 

Honey is the secret ingredient here. Its sweetness simultaneously elevates the creaminess of the Munster, cuts the sharpness of the cheddar and melds with the honey. You like honey-butter on rolls? You're going to love it on grilled cheese. 

Once the sandwich reaches the appropriate shade of brown, take it out. 

God-level-grilled cheese should never be burned. Burned grilled cheese is the definition of the pedestrian.

Allow to cool and serve it with organic tomato soup and enjoy your heavenly creation.