Death By Grilled Cheese
Plus Hurricane Helene help linkage, Overheard at Disney, and the candle I never knew I didn't want.
The following was written moments after—and also kind of during—a harrowing experience, and I don’t mean Hurricane Helene although that also kind of sucked.
I just almost choked on a grilled cheese. It would’ve been a fitting way to go. Everyone who knows me would immediately see the Karma, and not in the what-goes-around-comes-around, Ezekiel 25:17 revenge porn kind of way. Rather they would find solace in knowing that I’d gone out doing what I love best: inhaling gooey melted cheese pressed between two slices of glutenous, yoga mat-infused, spongy bread. “That’s so Lindsey,” they’d chuckle to themselves.
A jagged crumb of toasted sourdough got away from the rest of the bite in my mouth like a spacey kid drifting away from her field trip group at the museum. As I coughed and coughed with tears streaming down my face, I actually felt relieved. I learned that silence is when you’re truly fucked. Coughing means breathing. So I’m coughing and coughing, and all alone. Usually, I bask in my alone time like a dog on the floor in front of the window, stretched out in a dust-sparkled sunbeam. But today as I hacked and gasped, and looked at my own dog approaching with her head tilted, I wondered if Thatcher1 had it in her to be one of those hero dogs you read about in the news.
She was going to grab my phone in her mouth and activate the emergency button with her dextrous digital pads to alert first responders. While we’re in a fantasy, let’s also pretend I’m in a place that any EMT could ever reach in time to save my life.2 And then I remembered there was a grilled cheese still warm on a plate in my hand that for some reason I decided to balance like the Cat in the Hat while convulsing, instead of putting it down on one of many surfaces readily available to me. Suddenly, I sensed Thatcher wasn’t worried about me, she just wanted my fucking grilled cheese, which turned out very dry because I was out of butter,3 so the joke’s on her. If the oversized, over-inhaled bite had blocked my airway entirely, my last mental snapshot on Earth would be my cheap boho area rug, which now that I’ve collapsed to the ground, I can see and feel really needs a vacuum. The last sounds of the soundtrack of my life—Thatcher licking her chops, her tongue pulsating like a waterless Waterpik, reaching every last morsel from every crevice. Fade to white. And scene.
If a food killed you, what would it be? It doesn’t have to be choking—could be diabetes, heart attack, the world is your perilous oyster.
Final flex: I risked my life, noshing on the rest of my grilled cheese while typing this and lived to tell the tale.
When Helene hit, Abbie and I were in Orlando for her fall break, and I heard the following poolside at Disney’s All-Star Music Resort. Cringe or call child services?
Young grandmother or older mother to five-year-old: You said you wanted to go to the bathroom, now you gonna fucking go to the bathroom or not?
Many kind people, friends and strangers, have reached out asking how they can best help support Western North Carolina right now. Seeing what I’ve seen on the ground, I wholeheartedly recommend the following organizations and efforts. Right in time for holiday shopping, Explore Asheville presents Love Asheville From Afar, a one-stop online shop with items and gift cards from your favorite Asheville small businesses. Today is my (our?) 21st wedding anniversary, and as a gift to ourselves and our community, we are purchasing a gift card from the Old Marshall Jail Hotel to use for a future staycation when it reopens. If you love Marshall as much as we do, you can do the same, or donate to the entire town’s rebuilding efforts at HelpMarshall.org. Organizations that have blown my mind with their effectiveness, people, and passion include World Central Kitchen, Operation Airdrop, and Beloved Asheville.
If you’re looking to leave the country right now for whatever terrifying reason that might be dominating your every thought, consider a stay at Palapas del Sol in Holbox Island, Mexico, just a couple of hours north of Cancun. We had to cancel our early December trip because of Hurricane Helene, and even though they had a strict “no refund” policy and we booked through a third party,4 they made an exception and gave us a total refund. We were so touched and plan to rebook that trip as soon as life allows. I highly recommend booking directly, but since their website is primitive, you can read more about them via third party sites and reviews.
I think the Campbell’s tomato soup and grilled cheese scented candle will be one of those ideas that’s better in theory than in my living room, but it makes me happy to know it exists in the world.
A recent unfortunate circumstance had me thinking about death, and reminded me of one of the most underrated funeral scenes in cinematic history—if you need a laugh.
Thatcher’s full name is Margaret Thatcher Grossman. I wanted to call her Thatcher because of a professor’s dog I adored in college of the same name. Also, she’s a white English cream goldendoodle, and Margaret Thatcher was also white, English, and creamy. I’m convinced we’re part of a switched-at-birth scandal, and the breeders gave us a full-on poodle.
As always, a note for my murderous readership: I made this up for effect. I actually live right next door to a police station and a Taco Bell that’s open late.
Just found out we weren’t out of butter so the joke’s really on me.
Always book direct—booking through a third party is a cardinal travel sin in my book. Never again, until next time.