Sense, memory--version one.

I have said my peace on the subject of our Americanness--both here and elsewhere. I find our urgent bumper sticker variety patriotism at odds with our suspicions over what is authentically American. It's such a fussy research.

The best of our homegrown crafts are vital, and we need to know it--we love America yet distrust the things we as Americans have produced--for one another, out of our forage and land and love heritage; I sense in full belief what we do here to be uniquely magical and necessary to the contemporary livelihood. To hear Waylon Jennings in that pearlene Nashville careen, to see John Ford's movies, their forged silver, to love Gary Cooper, Fats Domino, Ella Fitzgerald who ought just as well be a secular saint, to have a crush on the assistant d.a. on Law and Order--take your pick, none of this threatens to exceed the hybrid magic of, say, meatloaf.

No, no shit.

No Gershwin tune, no Blue Note record overascends my mother's chili-inflected macaroni & cheese.

I had been talking to Timmy at Gooski's a few weeks ago, I heard him describe the tomato soup and black-edge grilled cheese sandwiches he made to push himself over a seasonal bout with a chest cold. It was then that I realized, having eaten those Gooski's guys' food in front of countless Steelers games; Stanley Cup playoffs with no fingernails left to chew off; or reheated, drunk as all hell at the late edge of a night shift to some old Gene Kelly musical on Turner, their beef stews; or alternately, early, at 4PM at the cusp of an evening of work as the sun fell in a brilliant hillside creamery haze between the mint patina Polish tower caps of the Immaculate Heart of Mary: a shepherds pie expeditious enough in character to qualify as a down winter coat; a leftover enchilada with vermilion shredded chicken and adobo running from the seams; Italian bef redolent of garlic and demiglace-thick jus, sturdy enough to stop the Hessians--should they return; buttery packet-size squirrel pies from the degenerate Nazi who, despite outward indications, knows his way around the kitchen. The world of eating is also the world of delivery. We eat and--whatever it is we eat, whatever we find and savor there, we tool and discern a way back home.

My soup and sandwich tandem is, I think, quite forthright, and as satisfying as any you'll find in a nice old diner.

The Sandwich:

Heat and season a large cast-iron skillet. Keep hot. Wrap one clean masonry brick in foil--one for each sandwich.

Melt a 1/2 stick of butter with some fresh chopped parsley, chives, several tablespoons of good Parmigiano-Reggiano, salt and pepper, and a splash of olive oil.

Brush two roughly sliced pieces of batard with the melted herb and butter solution. Lay face down in th hot skillet. Layer on slices of cheese--it's up to you which to choose. I opted for the relatively flavor-neutral mild provolone as it's cheap and melts like its pricier Alpine cousins, along with a nice, aggressive smoked gouda. Between the layers of cheese I added a mixture of a fork-mashed heaping tablespoon of Parmigiano-Reggiano, a slight dash of brown mustard, and a tablespoon of heavy cream, salt and pepper, dried chilli flakes if you like. Once incorporated, and layered amid the cheese slices add the top slice of bread,completing the sandwich(es), brushing with the melted herb and butter solution. Weigh on each sandwich a foil-wrapped brick--be vigilant, there is enough fat at the periphery to burn it all in an instant. Watch your flame and flip each when you get the char you like. Bast in the remaining butter and herb solution between flips, replenishing the solution with olive oil, butter, what have you...

The Soup:

For such a cold-weather reliable this seems logistically better suited to the warm garden months' making, but it is actually quite the preserver's dream. Thanks to canned pomodori pelati and some natural sugars the soup elegantly raises flavors out of browning vegetable sweetness that seem to the palate absolutely fresh, direct and uncoaxed.

Meanwhile cut x-marks into the bottoms of, then roast, 2 large (4 Roma) tomatoes in olive oil, salt and pepper. Let them cook til the skins pull cleanly away--you'll want to discard those shed skins as they border the inedible. Look for a brown caramel liquor to release from the hearts of the tomatoes. Coarsely chop. Collect the spilled juices, recombine with the solids, set aside. That reunion for all intents and purposes is the soul of your soup. Short of rescuing it you might as well eat from a can or mix boiling water with tomato paste. Don't be foolish.

Take the heels from a batard of good bread, dice them and toast with a stir of olive oil in the fashion of croutons. Once dehydrated and well-browned remove from heat, pulverize. Set aside.

Saute 1/2 large yellow onion, 1/2 half large fennel bulb--the white root, and a smattering of roasted garlic. Add oil to lubricate as you go. Let this simmer, browning the bulbs, breaking them down to their softest. Once you're satisfied--taste them for the release of their respective sugars, add 1 small can of tomato juice, I large can of pelati--a brand you trust (I recommend a San Marzano variety). Fill out the soup with water--I find I used about 1 cup and 3/4, which rest assured, reduces out of dilution's risk.

Add the roasted tomatoes with juices, dried bread, 1 heaping tablespoon of honey, 1/2 pint of whole milk--heated through, 1 half stick of unsalted butter, and a heaping tablespoon of sour cream. Simmer and stir til a thick, coating orange red body is identified. At the instant it is achieved cut the flame. Puree your soup--sticklers will advise you to strain the results with a sieve, but this would only compromise the rugged texture you've just created.

It's up to you.

Add chopped herbs and greens: I used pastel green celery leaves, parsley and some scallions. Stir in, pair with the grilled cheese sandwiches, serve.

This reliquary of our making adjusts to what we do, day-to-day.