Jamie Oliver's crown cheese sandwich with bacon and egg

Mise en place if you're French. But we're not French so, "stuff's all ready." 

The bacon bits are cooked in the same pan as the egg that follows. 

Then the bread is toasted in the same pan.

Then the cheese is melted and toasted in the same pan

Then the sandwich is assembled and the inside cheese melts at the same time that the second layer of outside cheese is toasting. 

So then, three layers of cheese. Four, actually, two layers outside and toasted to a crunch and either one or two layers melted inside. 

Get it? Got it. Good.

Now the bacon bits are held tightly and won't fall all over the place. And since they are bits they won't be a pain in the teeth to bite through and tear apart the sandwich as you eat it, or pull out as you go and get eaten separately.

Both sides of the bread are lightly toasted in the leftover bacon grease and then the other side toasted in butter.

This is a greasy sandwich. The cheese releases oil too. You need a paper towel and a napkin to eat it.

1/4 the cheese is melted straight into the non-stick pan.

Toasted bread placed on the cheese as the cheese toasts.

Second layer of cheese placed in the pan to melt and to toast.

Cheese sprinkled on the top of the bread.

The egg with bacon placed on top of the cheese.

The last of the cheese placed on top of the egg and bacon.

So the inside goes, cheese, egg and bacon, more cheese.

The original layer is placed on top. 

Now the inside cheese is melting while the bottom layer of cheese toasts.

When the cheese is loosened and a spatula is used to lift up the sandwich then the cheese around the edges droop. When you hold it there for a few seconds then the cheese will harden in that shape.

Jamie Oliver, being British, is inclined to view this shape as a crown. How ridiculous. The bread isn't circular and it doesn't hold any jewels. Americans tend to think of this shape as droopy cheese. And we're disinclined to hold it to create that shape, rather, our inclination is to tidily push it all into a neat little package. 

He's a nice guy. He can't help it that he's British. 

(But speech-therapy could repair the thick tongue.)

Ask me how I know.

*squeaky voice* How do you know?

I know because I had speech-therapy in the fifth grade.

It went down like this.

In kindergarden Mum gave me pussy willows to give to my teacher.

So I did.

"Here. Have thome puthy willowth."

     "Ha ha aha. Say that again."

"I thaid, here, have thome puthy willowth.

     "Ha ha ha. Say that again." 

"What'th your problem?"

     "Just say it again."

"Okay. But you're incomprehenthible. Here. Have thome puthy willowth." 

So she identified a speech impediment but she didn't do anything about it. She didn't direct me to a therapist. I was too cute to fix. Apparently. Why ruin the fun? I suppose everyone thought that.

Flash forward five years. 

Now we live in Japan. I started 5th grade in one school and without moving our home our school was transferred to a brand new building. A brand new military building. And the odd thing was even though the school was brand new. Everything in it brand new. Every light bulb, every desk, every book, every floor tile brand new. The flag was brand new but two stars behind. The flag had forty-eight stars. This was 1965. The flag changed to fifty stars in 1960. They were five years behind. 

They were loath to waste good flags they had in storage. 

So don't go telling me the military wastes money wantonly. They saved money on flags. 

Maybe they thought we wouldn't notice. 

But come on. The arrangement is a lot more attractive. More ordered. You spot it right off. Even a kid does. We didn't even discuss it. We each just noticed it like pffft well look at that antique. 

It goes simply 6 X 8 

Whereas 50 stars goes twenty meshed into thirty,  4x5 meshed into 5x6.

Whoever thought of this is ace at maths. 

So that was the second 5th grade then we actually moved to a more comfortable home and a new school. Narimasu. The school was overloaded so they built Quonset huts to contain the overflow.

How depressing. Now that's military.

I did not like my Quonset hut class. 

I did't like anything. As a child I was a very real asshole. I was unhappy about everything. 

My teacher was a French national. I didn't like him either. 

He made my life miserable. 

By being too hard. 

He thought American education was terrible and his goal was to fix that independently so he made all our lives much harder. We had to perform at a grade level higher. We had to sing songs in French. We had to learn math at 6th grade level. We had to learn history that none of us cared about.

Which songs?

French Christmas carols. We all sang De Bon Matin, the actual title is La Marche des Rois.

De bon matin
J’ai rencontré le train
De trois grands rois qui allaient en voyage.
De bon matin
J’ai rencontré le train
De trois grands rois dessus le grand chemin.
Venaient d’abord
Les gardes du corps,
Des gens armés avec trente petits pages,
Venaient d’abord
Les gardes du corps,
Des gens armés dessus leurs justaucorps.

Ew, I hate him to pieces all over again just thinking about this.

Later, at the next school in the 6th grade, elsewhere and closer to home, a beautiful young French Woman taught us a song in Latin. But she spoke only French. The whole class had to help guess wtf she was saying. She actually drew a picture of an angel on the blackboard for "ange."

The Latin was a lot more difficult.  Adeste Fideles

Adeste, fideles, laeti triumphantes;
Venite, venite in Bethlehem.
Natum videte Regem angelorum.

Venite adoremus, venite adoremus,
Venite adoremus, Dominum.

Deum de Deo, lumen de lumine,
Parturit virgo mater,
Deum verum, genitum, non factum.

And so on.

But we all liked her quite a lot because she was hot.

And not just regular hot. She was smokin' hot.

The final fifth grade teacher was nice enough, though,  but he was strict as H-E-Double baguettes. 

And demanding. 

He spotted my speech impediment and he directed me to school speech therapist. 

And I was all GOOD! I get out of your f'k'n class once a week. 

La la la. 

There was only one other boy in the speech therapy class. A nice kid my age. We became friends. He didn't say his Rs properly. I didn't hear any problem, but the specialists did. So he practiced saying Rs and I practiced saying Ss. 

We were pals. 

We supported each other. 

I learned there are two ways to say S properly. I was told to choose one and stick with it. So I did. 

Thereafter ...

I'm a little teapot thort and thout 

hereth my handle and hereth my thpout

When I get all thteamed up I just thout

Tip me over and pour me out. 

became

I'm a little teapot short and stout

Here's my handle and here's my spout.

When I get all steamed up I just shout

Tip me over and pour me out. 

Gay.

Gayer than a truckload of Mardi Gras necklaces. 

They wanted me to sound gay. They trained me to sound gay. Goddamn French. They ruined my life. 

I was better off speaking like a retard. 

But at least I don't sound so bad as Jamie Oliver. Jesus Christ, that guy needs help.