In these low-budget hostels in exotic locations, you can overlook the poorly functioning plumbing and the cockroaches if you focus instead on your fellow travelers, becoming fast friends while comparing travel notes over rounds of cheap, warm beer. I can't think of a more interesting way to learn about other people and cultures than in hearing these stories. That is, if you can understand them. The Frenchwoman had just finished telling a very long story about being chased by goats (or was it ghosts?) outside (and apparently it had happened to her elsewhere before). The Scot then chimed in with a story of his own. These conversations don't often take on a scholarly track, but somehow he started discussing literature. I just didn't know that was what he was talking about. 

"Do you like Rabbit Buns?" he asked. 

"Oh, I don't eat rabbit. I am mostly vegetarian," was my response. 

"No, not rabbit. Rabbit Buns." 

The rosy-cheeked English couple looked at me, smiling. They exchanged glances with the Frenchwoman, but she looked as perplexed as I did. 

The Scot started repeating himself over and over, getting increasingly agitated and red in the face. "You really don't know about Rabbit Buns? Rabbit Buns. Rabbit Buns! Do you really not learn anything about literature in your American universities?" 

If I had not been with a crowd of witnesses, and if it had not been so otherworldly beautiful outside, I would have been scared for my safety. The Scot was about to Blow His Top. 

Finally, the English farmer woman rescued me. "Linda, he's talking about Robert Burns. You know, the Scottish poet?" (At least I could understand her accent.) 

Well, why didn't he just say so? 

Robert Burns wrote poems on many subjects, the most famous perhaps his "O, my Luve's like a red, red rose ..." He lyricized on food, too, including an ode to haggis, but no worries, I'm not cooking that here. Instead, this story reminded me of Welsh rabbit, sometimes spelled "rarebit," the British version of grilled cheese. It's not clear how its name came about. Like Robert Burns/Rabbit Buns, Welsh rabbit does not contain actual rabbit. The first recorded use of this name was in 1725. Theories abound as to its etymology. One proposes that it may be an ironic name coined in the days when the Welsh were notoriously poor: In England at that time rabbit was the poor man's meat, and in Wales the poor man's meat was cheese. Another explanation is simpler: The Welsh were known for being cheese lovers, and early Welsh writing mentions a rabbit-like Welsh cheese dish. This is described by Andrew Boorde in his Fyrst Boke of the Introduction of Knowledge (1542): "I am a Welshman, I do love cause boby, good roasted cheese."

So here is my version of Welsh rabbit/rarebit, homestyle comfort food along the lines of American grilled cheese. English food may have a bad rap, but Welsh rabbit/rarebit actually has a more nuanced taste than grilled cheese. With its mix of smooth melted cheddar, a rich cream sauce, and some ale or beer to cut the richness, plus or minus some spices, it's the English equivalent of fondue. And, appropriately for the land where the sandwich was born, it's fondue made portable on toast. I am serving it in tribute to the poetry of Rabbit Buns, the friends you make traveling, and my Achilles' heel of foreign accents. Kilt and bagpipes optional. 

Welsh rabbit, for Rabbit Buns (or Welsh rarebit, for Robert Burns)

Welsh rarebit is English pub fare, so it's perfect in cool weather with some ale, or a nice strong cuppa tea, such as PG Tips. To healthy it up a bit, which is definitely untraditional, serve it with a green salad and some sliced tomatoes.

Servings: about 12

It was the middle of the '60s and only just now did I connect the dots between the iconic soup can my mother would have opened to feed me lunch and her life away from our apartment as an artist in a studio one floor down from Andy Warhol's Factory. We would ride the elevator sometimes with the polite young man with the graying hair and his glamorous pals in their patent leather boots and fishnet tights. One day my mother came home shaking. She had been there when the polite young man was whisked away in an ambulance after being shot in the stomach by "a woman"!

Years later when Andy had recovered, he still needed to wear a medical corset under his shirt to "keep things together." His hair had turned white (though he often wore a silver wig that was mistaken for his own hair), and by then I knew who he was. I would see him on occasion at the various clubs my friends and I would frequent as 20-somethings trying rather hopelessly to inhabit our time as dramatically as he had his.

But it was the '80s and the flashy, ebullient promise of the '60s had turned darker and edgier. Instead of the frail and ethereal beauty of Edie Sedgwick and Twiggy, we had the leather-clad Ramones and Debby Harry in a ripped T-shirt to emulate. We wore safety pins on the outsides of our clothes and clomped around in boots with too many buckles.

Andy showed up late one night to a club, his spiky mop of hair a beacon amid the sea of black shirts and skinny jeans of his entourage. A girl I knew was with him. She had just written a book and was a momentary media darling. "Hey," I said. She pretended she didn't know me. I wanted to scream at her, "I fed your cat when you were in rehab!" She had been my next-door neighbor for a year and for countless nights I had listened to her crying jags through the thin wall that separated our bathrooms. "They hate me!" she would wail and sometimes glass would shatter.

Andy was taking pictures with a Polaroid camera and his friends would shake the developing images after they spit out. Before I turned away, I stared and took my own mental picture of him, not imagining that a few years later he would be gone. It is filed away next to that other mental picture I have of a little girl, years away from black clothes and ugly boots, happily soothed by a cup of soup from a famous can and a delicious brightly colored sandwich.

Basic Grilled Cheese Sandwich

There are a few tricks to making a good grilled cheese sandwich, no matter what kind of bread or what kind of cheese you choose. Instead of melting butter in the pan, I always slather one side of the bread with room temperature butter before grilling. I always heat the pan before I start to grill. If you are adding any condiments like mustard, chutney or savory jam, spread them on the unbuttered side of a piece of bread before you put the cheese on. If you are adding anything else such as greens, tomatoes or bacon, add them after the cheese has started to melt and before you top them with the second piece of bread. Lastly, grated cheese melts more evenly than sliced cheese.

Makes 2 sandwiches

My dad was a deli man. He grew up working in his family's delicatessen from a tender young age (read: in violation of all modern child labor laws). In short, my dad knows his lunch meat. At the time when I was in my grilled cheese formative years, say 5 to 12, my dad owned two grocery stores, both equipped with full-service deli counters. A fact, which I now realize, that probably played a subversive role in my demise as a committed vegetarian (as well as my love of all things brined and cured), but that is a story for another time.

Needless to say there were no Lunchables in this girl's brown bag. Instead, on the good days, I might get a thinly sliced corned beef sandwich (my favorite), a few pieces of brisket, or a pork chop (with a snack size Mott's applesauce). On the bad days, the butt end of an old roast, some gristle with an apple, or an unidentifiable piece of something I still don't know. Sometimes the meat was old, a fact that was never considered a problem. My dad would instruct: "Brush off the mold, it will be fine ... see, good as new. That's what my mother, your grandmother [he'd clarify, in case I wasn't sure], told me." Taking it one step further, he once declared, "A little mold is good for you." I'll stop there, you get the (hairy, blue/green) picture.

Still, the VIP deli access made me a pretty entitled kid for awhile. "What do you mean you only have bologna? I want roast beef!" I'd cry. I knew enough to know when the good stuff was being withheld. My dad mocked exasperation but I knew he was secretly proud because I was just like him. I won't say grilled cheese was beneath me but, well, if you could have a hot pastrami hero on fresh bread delivered that morning, would you still want a lifeless grilled cheese?

Living on my own took me down a few notches. I learned to love the cheap thrills of processed cheese on the Foreman grill and quesadillas made in my tiny apartment broiler -- gateway drugs to the more sophisticated cheese and carb combinations of my future. And just as I had gotten back to a place of total snobbish dismissal of the bolognas of the world, along came my instant-potato-loving, high-fructose-syrup-drinking, Taco Bell-value meal-aficionado husband. Who, unlike me, grew up eating and loving the traditional grilled cheese. He is an unabashed fan of the Kraft single.

But I couldn't leave it just at the basics. I love this gussied-up version because it hits all the right spots -- rich (and oozy), salty/sweet from the ham, a little crunch from the apple, sweetness from the jam, (which is like a tropical quince paste), a tiny bit of heat and texture from the mixture of mustards.

Fancy Pants Grilled Cheese

"Plastic isn't edible or digestible." She smiled and rubbed his buzz cut. "And you're not NORMAL. Wash up, it'll be ready in a minute. How'd you do on the spelling test?"

He was out of earshot already heading down the stairs for the basement workshop. He'd never miss a chance to fiddle with the train set or build a thingamabob.

Hot French bread sliced thin and layered with sharp cheddar and mozzarella cheese was an old family favorite; the secret was the chopped salty olives and sun-dried tomatoes tucked secretly in between the two cheeses.

"Bring up the brick when you come," she called down the stairs. "Your dad took it for something." The famous brick, wrapped in foil, made the perfect press for smushing the sandwiches flat.

Joey appeared at the top of the stairs holding the heavy brick and a new contraption made from rubber bands, paper clips and popsicle sticks.

She scooped up the brick, inspecting its foil covering. "Let me guess, under the corner of the dryer?"

"Nope, on top of the humidifier," Joey said, pinching a handful of cheese and turning to stir the tomato soup on the stove.

She had the brick covered with new foil by the time he returned, ready for him to smush the sandwiches. Participation in the kitchen was strongly encouraged at Joey's house and he was always thick in the middle of it. No matter what the project was.

His request, "grilled cheese, please," was easily fulfilled as Fridays were usually baking days for Mrs. J. Better yet, it meant some pretty good cookies after school for those of us lucky enough to be Joey's neighbors.

I don't think my best friend knew how lucky he was to be able to go home for lunch, or even cared. Undoubtedly his lunch would beat out our brown bag P., B. and J.s.

It was always great fun to see what invention Joey would bring back from his lunch. This time it was a rubber-banded chalk saver for our first grade teacher, Mrs. G. She, of course, rolled her eyes upward and thanked him for the thingamabob. But for me the real gift was learning the secrets about those fabulous lunches Joey's mom made each and every day.

Mrs. J's Grilled Cheese

Makes 6 small sandwiches

This week, we asked for your best grilled cheeses.

THIS WEEK'S WINNER:

A basic sandwich, an earth-shaking story by Lisa Barlow: Yes, Lisa lays out everything you need to know to make a pitch-perfect grilled cheese -- grate the cheese (if you're not using the pre-wrapped slice kind), butter the bread, not the pan, etc. But the real reason you need to read this is ... Andy Warhol. Andy Warhol sightings, punk rock, despicable scenesters, Polaroids, grilled cheese and Campbell's tomato soup, of course.

THIS WEEK'S ALTERNATE WINNERS:

Fancy pants grilled cheese by Trish O'Rourke: Growing up the daughter of a deli owner can severely limit your childhood exposure to the last-minute pleasures of a standard grilled cheese, so Trish does her dad proud with this exotic concoction: two cheeses, ham, mustards, apple slices, caramelized onions and guava jam. Thanks, Pops!

Welsh rarebit, by Linda Shiue: If the point of a grilled cheese is to get the gooey, crisp and creamy together, why not do it Welsh style, with a rich cheese cream sauce broiled on toast?

My best friend's grilled cheese (with olives and sun-dried tomatoes) by TG Within: "Aw, mom, can't we ever just have Velveeta and normal bread?" TG's friend whined. "Plastic isn't edible or digestible," his mom would say. "And you're not NORMAL." So this unnormal grilled cheese uses cheddar and mozzarella, with chopped olives and sun-dried tomatoes tucked in. Weirdos rule!

PLUS, ALSO, TOO: THE HONORABLE MENTIONS

Grilled Mac 'n' Cheese by Robin Sneed: Somewhere, the people who brought you the grilled cheese stuffed with fried mozzarella sticks are kicking themselves for not imagining this one -- crisp buttered toast filled with double-cheesed Kraft mac 'n' cheese. This is kind of amazing, and it should it be noted that it was invented by a 10-year-old.

OMG! OMG! GRILLED CHEESE VIRGIN MARY SIGHTING by I Am Surly: Need we say more? Click through to see a miracle.

Gruyere, pimento cheese and red pepper marmalade by Vivian Henoch: Be still our beating hearts!

The noble Monte Cristo, by Theresa Rice: We have to admit that the Monte Cristo, a ham-and-cheese sandwich dipped into egg batter, griddled and served with powdered sugar and jam, feels to us a little like a bridge too far to the realm of breakfast-or-lunch confusion. But if you're into that kind of thing, let Theresa be your guide.

Onion grilled cheese, slightly smushed by Ingrid Carlson: For when taste trumps breath, Ingrid's brilliant addition of thin slices of raw sweet onion between the slices adds intrigue.

With bacon and pickles by Paul Hinrichs: Food, as he says, for the dark night of the soul, especially if your soul owns one of those panini presses that only ever get bought as well-meaning impulse buys.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

AND NOW FOR THIS WEEK'S CHALLENGE:

This past Saturday, watching glory be bestowed upon the Green Bay Packers (sorry, Falcons fans), bratwursts on my plate and cold beer in the fridge, I thought, "I could live like this forever. Or at least another couple of weekends." And so the next night, too, I had people over for playoff football, and served them brats and beer. Just like the week before, with mustardy hot dogs. And just like next week.

Yes, playoff football season is beer and encased meat season, but I can (kind of, sort of, if I really try hard to use my imagination) understand if people are set of the same-old same-old bun/tubesteak/drink combination. So this week, won't you help those poor people out? Come up with a dish that uses either beer or sausages (bonus points if it uses both!) that will excite their game-worn taste buds once again.

Be sure to tag your posts: SKC beer sausage (Please note that by participating, you're giving Salon permission to re-post your entry if it's chosen as a winner, and acknowledging that all words and images in your post are your own, unless explicitly stated. Adaptations of existing recipes are fine, but please let us know where the original comes from. And if you'd like to participate but not have your post considered for republication on Salon, please note it in the post itself. Thanks!)

Scoring and winning

Scores will be very scientific, given for appealing photos, interesting stories behind your submissions, creativity, and execution.

 

This week, we asked for your best hot soups.

THIS WEEK'S WINNER:

Ever-evolving minestrone, by Felisa Rogers: Some things we make from memory, the same way time after time, and some things seem to want to make themselves, a little differently from one day to the next. These living recipes are repositories of memory, and yet they can change in their particulars without losing the magic of their stories. Felisa's minestrone reunites her with her godmother, who's passed on ... but her recipe, featuring unusual touches like cooking the vegetables in two stages and a garnish of mozzarella cheese, is here for you to make your own connections with.

THIS WEEK'S ALTERNATE WINNERS:

Spicy Florida clam chowder by Felicia Lee: It might seem tough, food-wise, to move from L.A. to a city whose greatest culinary contribution is Gatorade, but Felicia finds hot comfort, at least, in a little-known St. Augustine specialty of Minorcan clam chowder, featuring the delicious and fiery datil pepper.

Humble cabbage soup by Trish O'Rourke: This is, admittedly, an ode to an ugly soup, a simple and hearty bowl of vegetables and turkey. But its homely charms won over this one-time soup-avoiding cook, and it changed her forever.

PLUS, ALSO, TOO: THE HONORABLE MENTIONS

Lentil soup that just might save the world by Linda Shiue: In homage to Frances Moore Lappe's seminal "Diet for a Small Planet," Linda returns this week with one of her favorite Lappe recipes, a lentil soup so satisfying that you won't ever miss the meat.

Snow day tomato soup by Lucy Mercer: As simple, as fundamental a tomato soup as can be, and a warming shot of summer when you most need it.

The split pea soup of your dreams, by Vivian Henoch: Wherein our heroine opens up a couple of cans and makes a passable split pea soup, then realizes she wants more from the world. The result: a recipe that involves fortifying chicken stock with ham hocks, a prominent chef, and just a little butter to keep things interesting.

Beef, vegetable and pesto soup by Theresa Rice: Somewhere between a soup and a stew and a dish of pasta, Theresa's bowl is full of hearty goodness.

Zucchini Zoup by GeeBee: Featuring a whole mess of zucchini and the richness of puréed nuts, GeeBee offers a great way to get your vegetables in for the day. (And, if you're like the mother-in-law who invented this dish, a stick of butter.)

Beans and hocks by Walter Blevins: It ain't fancy, and it ain't pretty, but Walter's bean soup simmered with the salty goodness of smoked ham hocks is a simple, classic standard. Here are the basics; you can play with it however you like.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

AND NOW FOR THIS WEEK'S CHALLENGE:

Now that we have soup all sewn up (NO, WE WERE NOT GOING TO SAY "IN THE CAN"), what has to come next but grilled cheese sandwiches? Here at Salon HQ we just enjoyed the sleazy kind of grilled cheeses that you watch the deli guy cut with a knife and then unwrap two minutes later to see that the sandwich has totally re-attached itself. Far from horror, this phenomenon reminded us that sometimes, there really is nothing better than two slices of white bread and American pasteurized processed cheese food product. You may or may not feel the same way. (But then again, you may or may not be wrong.)

Anyway, this week's challenge, then, is to come up with a creative grilled cheese. Creativity might take the form of what you put in there besides cheese, it might take the form of what you do with a grilled cheese, it might take the form of an exciting new way to make a grilled cheese. We will admire entries that involve fine breads and cheeses, but we are going to admit it: bonus points for sandwiches that involve the aforementioned white bread and American cheese.

Be sure to tag your posts: SKC grilled cheese (Please note that by participating, you're giving Salon permission to re-post your entry if it's chosen as a winner, and acknowledging that all words and images in your post are your own, unless explicitly stated. Adaptations of existing recipes are fine, but please let us know where the original comes from. And if you'd like to participate but not have your post considered for republication on Salon, please note it in the post itself. Thanks!)

Scoring and winning

Scores will be very scientific, given for appealing photos, interesting stories behind your submissions, creativity and execution.