My sisters and I all went to summer camp in Vermont in the little town of Fairlee. The camp—on the shore of Lake Morey—was all shades of green and white: white buildings with green roofs and green trim; uniforms of green cotton shorts and white shirts; green pine trees and the jaunty white triangular sails of Sunfish skimming the surface of the water. Clusters of open-air tents—nothing more than wooden platforms with khaki-colored canvas sides that we rolled up during the day and dropped at night—were half-hidden among the verdant hills that sloped down to the main camp buildings and, across a small road, the lake itself.
I can transport myself back there so quickly—remembering the woodsy smell as I lay in my bed at night, breathing in the evening air, hearing the rustling of leaves in the tree canopy overhead and the surprising number of sounds of a Vermont summer night: an owl, maybe, or laughter drifting up from the counselor meeting down the hill, or the distant splash of lake water. The beds were simple metal frames with thin mattresses covered in your own sheet, pillow case, and quilt. A large metal trunk sat next to each one filled with our clothes and a few extras: books, maybe, or postcards and pens, bug spray, a headlamp, a few bandanas, a Swiss Army Knife, and so on.
We were woken up each morning by the sound of reveille being played on the bugle, quickly followed by morning noises: groaning campers shifting sleepily in their beds, quiet chatter, counselors yelling from tent to tent, the water being turned on for tooth brushing and face washing before everyone rushed down the hill to breakfast, followed by a day of activity. Sailing and canoeing and swimming and then tennis, or maybe archery and pottery and a soccer game a mile down the road at the boys’ camp.
I loved the ceremony of it all: the flag raising at breakfast and lowering before dinner. The frenzied excitement of mail after lunch, when we’d rush up the stairs to the upper porch to see if we’d gotten a letter, or even better, a package. The lilting harmonies of the quieter songs at evening circle. The rousing, upbeat ones at morning assembly, when we’d bang the wooden floor and stomp our feet along with the chorus of songs like Charlie and the MTA and Swinging Along. The melancholy loveliness of the slow notes of taps played before bed.
Years later, my sisters and I can still remember most of the words—and I can hear them being sung in my head by dozens of voices, if I’m still and I listen hard enough. Some of them I know now to be quirky songs written just for camp (like the Gulicking-Up Song and Those Silent Hills), and others were universal: John Denver’s Take Me Home, Country Roads and Tom Petty’s Wildflowers.
As is so often the case, I remember some of the tiniest things the most vividly: the smell of blueberry pancakes cooking over a campfire high on the hilltop where we’d hike for Sunday morning pancake breakfasts, the exact look of the battered white Converse my tentmate Kat wore—scrawled on with Sharpie to match her irreverent style and blond dreads, the soft spritz sound of my friend Rosie spraying Curve for Men perfume on her wrists in the next bed over before an all-camp dance, the way my guitar case opened and closed with a satisfying thunk (when you go to an all-girls camp in Vermont, you most definitely consider learning the guitar—all the better to assist in late-night impromptu Indigo Girls singalongs), the smoke that clung to my fleece for days after our Fourth of July bonfire—a huge structure built by the oldest campers at the boys’ camp and lit at sunset once a summer.
And always, the food. Hobo packs of banana splits: a sliced banana piled with chocolate and marshmallows, all wrapped in foil then baked in the embers of an open fire. Or the cookie bars made famous by the trip kitchen manager: buttery squares of chocolate chip oatmeal cookie dough with a little cinnamon. We ate pita pizzas and soy sauced-peanut buttery noodles on overnight canoe trips, and when my mom would come visit for one day a summer, she’d remember to bring me a few Skor bars—my favorite candy at the time: a crunchy slab of toffee coated in milk chocolate.
Of all the meals, the one most anticipated was always grilled cheese day—which meant a huge tray of sandwiches cut in half on each table along with bowls of tomato soup so thick (made with cream cheese!) that it would coat your spoon and your lips and tongue.
The grilled cheese was classic, because really, why mess around with perfection? White bread, grilled in what was likely unholy amounts of some sort of margarine, with a gooey center of melted American cheese.
At home, we always made our grilled cheese very specifically and very differently—with heartier bread and sharp cheddar and a thin swipe of homemade relish. But for dunking in soup, you want something thin and less substantial. It’s like Breyer’s ice cream v. Jeni’s Splendid. There’s a time and a place for both.
Grilled cheese is such an undeniably happy food. Like Bob Marley on the radio or night swimming or golden retriever puppies, it’s impossible not to feel good around it.
I’m not going to tell you how to make a really good grilled cheese. (Wait, did I already? Did I mention that it’s a good idea to use mayonnaise on the outside and butter in the pan? Oops. Okay. Fine, I am going to tell you.)
But seriously, a grilled cheese is quite personal so you do you. But, however you like it, make sure you eat one now and again, for emotional well-being and mental health.
If you want to get into the grilled cheese vibe but go a little more advanced (SAY YES, SAY YES)—then here’s what you’re going to do.
You’re going to make what is basically a brioche dough. Buttery and enriched and supple. (Ooh yeah, I said it, supple.) You’re going to shape it just like a batch of cinnamon rolls, but instead of cinnamon sugar, you’re going to fill it with a swipe of melted butter and a dab of whole-grain mustard and a lot of cheese.
You’re going to bake the rolls in a pan until golden around the edges and you’re going to pull them out of the oven and let them cool until you’re juuuuuust able to pull one off without burning your fingers on the gooey strands of cheese oozing from the centers.
You’re probably going to burn your fingers a little anyway but it’ll absolutely be worth it.
You’ll get all that soft white bread and toasted edges and melty cheese and savory-salty-comfort.
And really, what’s better than that some days?
Gooey Cheese Rolls
Makes one 9” round pan
3/4 cup + 2 tablespoons (198g) milk
2 1/2 teaspoons instant or active dry yeast
3 cups (360g) all-purpose flour
6 tablespoons (84g) unsalted butter, softened and divided
1 egg yolk
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon whole-grain mustard
pinch cayenne pepper (optional)
1 cup (84g) grated sharp cheddar cheese
1/2 cup (85g) shredded fresh mozzarella cheese
To make the dough, heat the milk until just lukewarm. Stir in the yeast and let sit for 5 minutes.
In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a dough hook, or by hand in a large bowl, mix together the milk/yeast mixture, flour, 4 tablespoons of the butter, sugar, egg yolk, and salt. Mix until the dough comes together, and then knead until the dough is very smooth and elastic—don't skimp on this step. It should take about 10 minutes in a stand mixer. If the dough is still pretty sticky, carry on kneading until it feels quite smooth.
Lightly grease a large bowl and place the dough in it. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap or a damp tea towel and let rise for about 1 1/2 to 2 hours, until puffy and almost doubled.
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Gently press down the dough to deflate it, and turn it out onto a counter. The dough is buttery enough that you shouldn't need extra flour—it shouldn't stick.
Press/roll/stretch the dough out into a large rectangle, about 12" x 18" in size.
Melt the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter and brush a thin layer evenly over the dough, leaving a little space around all the edges (about 1/2"). Spread the mustard thinly over the butter.
Sprinkle the cheeses in an even layer over the dough.
Starting with the long side closest to you, roll the dough into a long log and pinch the seam firmly closed.
Using a piece of unflavored dental floss or fishing line (or a sharp knife but floss is easier and neater), slice the log into 1 1/2” thick pieces.
Place the rolls into a greased 9” round cake pan. (I like to grease the pan, then line it with parchment, and then grease it again because then the rolls pop out easily.) Cover the pan with plastic wrap or a damp tea towel and let rise until puffy, about 20 minutes. Towards the end of the rise, preheat the oven to 350° F.
Bake the rolls for about 25 minutes (start checking after 20, and then may take as long as 30. Just take them out when they are golden brown on top). Remove from the oven and let cool for at least 15 minutes.