grilled cheese sandwiches got the best of me yesterday. I burned not one, but two, of them. I think that somewhere there are grilled cheese trolls remembering the fact that as a child I didn't like grilled cheese sandwiches. Of course, that's why I would have children who adore grilled cheese sandwiches and request them fairly regularly.
I didn't intend to burn those sandwiches. My intention was purely to provide a good and nourishing meal for the boys. I scraped off the blackened part of one sandwich and folded it in half. The other sandwich ended up being kind of a molten cheese volcano looking thing, 1/4 bread and 3/4 cheese. Either grace or really hungry and therefore, forgiving boys were on my side as the appearance of the meal didn't garner any criticism. Instead there were hearty thanks for the effort and full tummies by the end of the meal.
I wish there was a similar grilled cheese principle in effect for life's efforts that get blackened. Unfortunately, there is no metaphor here, or at least not one I'm going to try and strain out. It's just two, not one, burned grilled cheese sandwiches, made by a mom who loves her boys, eaten by boys who love me back, and tomato soup on the side.