A Good Grilled Cheese Can Bring You to Your Knees
And my dad’s was killer
When I was a kid, my dad used to cook like he was camping, even when he wasn’t.
In the early ‘80s, my parents owned a Volkswagen Kombi camper van that we’d take on road trips to beaches and campgrounds up and down the east coast of Australia. It had a self-contained kitchen with a mini-fridge, gas burner, sink, and a dining table that folded away. The van was airless and hot as hell in the back where my brother and I were buckled in, bickering our way through the long summers. I was embarrassed by the van and had some serious four-door car envy, but my dad loved it. The Kombi was his escape. For him, the van allowed every day to feel like a vacation, even when we weren’t camping.
As Father’s Day approaches, it won’t be the noisy beast on wheels, the sibling squabbles, or communal sweating that I’ll miss: It’ll be the food my dad cooked in it, inspired by our adventures.
My dad was no Pépin, though he was the master of simple, cheap and cheerful, no-recipe required, bloody-delicious food. I have no recollection of him ever getting frazzled or irritated when he cooked. He tackled meals with a sense of improvisation. He’d look in the cupboard, see what he had on hand, and find great satisfaction for rustling something together. The best hot…
