before challah toasted with Brie, honeyed 
goat cheese, arugula, fig compote 

before crusty sourdough grilled with Gruyere, 
rosemary butter, caramelized shallots

before ancient-grain miche wood-fired 
with smoked Gouda, sliced pear, jalapeno jam

before Croque-Monsieur, Welsh Rarebit, 
Monte Cristo, Mushroom Reuben

there was my mother still in her nightgown 
and robe on a Sunday afternoon buttering 

pieces of white bread - Pepperidge 
Farm, Arnold, Wonder - sandwiching 

between them two slices of Kraft American 
cheese, individually unwrapped from plastic 

unadulterated, unadulted, no tomato, no bacon, 
no onions, no mushrooms, just bread, butter

an edible scaffolding used to transfer heat 
from my grandfather’s chipped yellow enamel 

frying pan towards the solid cheese center…butter 
melting, bread browning, cheese transforming

into hot, gooey, orange treasure while I waited,
impatient on a kitchen stool, legs swinging

Sarah Laskin is an emerging poet and longtime creator-artist. She works in environmental conservation and lives in Washington DC with a fabulous dog. This is her first publication.