I ate a lot of ham sandwiches growing up. Boiled, pressed ham shaved thin, spread flat between two slices of white bread slathered with bright yellow mustard and a slice of American cheese was an affordable meal for my parents to serve us. I don't miss the ham, but there's something incredibly comforting thinking about those sandwiches.
Nothing, however, compares to Karen's relationship with ham sandwiches. We're married 14 years this June. For a long time, we've known each other's stories so well that we can say a word or two, and we've compressed a five-minute story into a second. Which leaves more time for laughing. Or drinking.
But about five years ago, Karen and I were talking about fundraisers we did in high school. This was sparked by large boxes of chocolates at our place of employment. I remarked that both the price and the quality had increased since my time in HS band. I remember the terrible waxy bars resembling chocolate we were required to hustle, funding long and hot summer bus rides to town parades, where our plastic shoes stuck to the sizzling pavement. Bad chocolate, stinky polyester uniforms, but fun. Karen casually asks, "Why didn't you just sell ham sandwiches?"
How do you respond to that? What does that even mean? Is it a euphemism?
Clarifying, she tells me that at their school, they sold ham sandwiches as a fundraiser. Same boiled ham I ate growing up, but they used the far superior Martin's potato rolls. Long assembly lines, done in shifts. People would buy sacks of sandwiches. Mustard packets included. She sees nothing wrong with this, nothing weird, completely socially acceptable.
To me, a sack of ham sandwiches is the most terrifying fundraiser ever. Worse than the 1970s-friendly tall candles my brothers sold, worse than the crocks of processed cheese spread and summer sausage we sold in elementary school. To quote Karen, "People would buy enough to feed their family for the week." Huh.
So. Let's reconsider the ham sandwich, shall we? No bright yellow mustard, no white bread, no rubbery cheese slices. And no fundraiser.
I think it's pretty clear, if you've read even a little of this blog, we'd make just about anything that has Barbara Lynch's name on it. Her food is incredibly, (nearly) impossibly tasty. The one thing we've heard from our readers both here and on Facebook is that her recipes seem a little/lot involved. I sort of (don't) agree. Yes, they take time, but nothing is terribly hard.
The one is incredibly easy, with lots of shortcuts built right into it. It explodes with flavor, so there's no reason to avoid making it. Unless you don't eat pork. Or wheat. Or dairy. We'll excuse the non-pork-wheat-dairy eaters among you.
This is the best ham and cheese sandwich you've ever eaten. Promise.
recipe | ham and cheese puff-pastry bites with honey mustard (from Barbara Lynch's Stir
)for the honey mustard
- 2 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
- 1 onion, thinly sliced
- 3 tablespoons honey
- 3 tablespoons Dijon mustard
- Salt and pepper
- Two sheets frozen puff pastry, thawed as the package directs (get the best available brand; try for all-butter)
- 1/2 pound thinly sliced smoked ham
- 1/2 pound shredded Gruyère cheese (we added in some Comte that we had from French onion soup)
- 1 large egg, lightly beaten
- 1/2 teaspoon sea or Kosher salt
- Heat a skillet over medium heat. Add the oil. Add the onion, Stir until softened. Ours took 10 minutes. Add the honey and the mustard and cook, stirring every so often, for another 5 minutes. Puree in a food processor until sort of smooth. Taste and add salt and pepper if you need it.
- Heat the oven to 375°.
- Line a baking sheet with parchment. Lay down one sheet of the puff pastry and roll out until about 1/8 inch.
- Spread out the honey mustard, leaving a 3/4-inch border uncovered. Slap down the ham. Then cover with the cheese.
- Roll out the remaining pastry sheet on parchment, then carefully flip over the parchment/pastry on top of the cheese. (The parchment should be staring you in the face, not the dough.)
- Seal the edges. Do everything you can to make these edges stick [crimp, press with fork, staple it if you must (don't do that)].
- Cover the top with the remaining egg and sprinkle with the salt.
- Lay another cookie sheet on top of the top layer of parchment to hold down the pastry. Bake for about 20 minutes.
- Remove the top pan. Bake until deep golden brown. Ours took 20 minutes, but check yours at 15 minutes.
- Let cool for 10 minutes at least. Cut up into pieces, depending on how many you're serving.
- Would make a great appetizer, but we served larger sizes with a Bouchon salad.
