I walked into the classroom on my first day of kindergarten, and all I could hear was screaming. Several kids clung to their parents’ legs and begged them not to leave. Some stood and sobbed in place. At the center of the room was the real show—a girl writhing on the floor and screeching loud enough to drown out the others; her helpless mom stood over her. I was in the corner, unfazed, taking everything in. “So THIS is kindergarten? This embarrassing display of hysterics is what my parents have been hyping me up for all summer? I brought out my special lamb book bag for this. What a disgrace.”
In addition to my lamb book bag, I had another unique accessory that day: a cast on my right wrist. I broke my arm over the summer when I fell off a swing set, and let me tell you, when I saw all the theatrics going on in the classroom, I thought, “Sheesh, I didn’t cry this hard when I broke an actual bone. If these kids want to be friends with me, they need to get it together.” Across the room, there was another girl standing calmly with her mom. Her name was Michelle, and she spotted me right away. Her mom recalls what she saw that day: “Taylor had a cast on her arm, and Michelle loves to help injured baby birds. Also, they were the only two quiet kids in the middle of all that screaming. I knew right away they’d be friends.”
Best friends, to be exact, and our bond hasn’t wavered in the decades since. Together we’ve celebrated birthdays and graduations and taken vacations. I was the maid of honor at her wedding, and I was there when she and her husband got their first apartment. We were fresh out of college, and the place was small with a galley kitchen and the fridge tucked in the corner of the living room. It had zero counter space, but that did not deter Michelle. She received a bunch of kitchen gadgets and cookbooks for her wedding and loved to use them. She invited me and her sisters over for dinner all the time. She tried many dishes, but our favorite was her paninis. Every Thursday I’d go over to watch our favorite shows, and Michelle would dig out her panini press and customize each sandwich.
Michelle improvised her recipe, keeping the ingredients simple. Turkey or ham, cheddar cheese, and tomato. She always bought the freshest rolls she could find, and we swore that was the secret ingredient. Curly fries were always the chosen side dish. We’d each get a sandwich tailored to our unique specifications—I always picked turkey and cheddar, nothing fussy. Then we’d pick a spot on the couch, or sometimes the floor, because there was no room in the apartment for a proper dining room table. We’d eat our dinner and watch a full lineup of shows while Michelle stood at the press in case someone ordered seconds. Panini Night on Thursdays became a beloved post-college tradition.
Michelle and her husband bought a house soon after that, and she was blessed with an actual dining room, tables and chairs, and newer, bigger kitchen gadgets. The dinner options expanded as well: Guests would pick up bread or a dessert and head over to eat. Michelle’s sisters would bring their spouses, I’d bring my own sister, and eventually Michelle had her first baby. What started as a small treat in that little apartment had grown, and there were now ten or more of us at dinner. No matter who was there, Michelle was the consummate hostess.
A few years later, I moved to Chicago to pursue writing and had a bevy of restaurants to choose from. I remember the first time I went into one of the popular spots and saw panini on the menu. I was elated, thinking only of Michelle’s famous sandwiches, and ordered one without looking at anything else. I was practically drooling by the time the server set it in front of me. I took a big bite—and was immediately disappointed. This panini had extras on it, like roasted red peppers and a little bit of pesto spread over the turkey. This panini was too fancy for me. Then my brother moved to Philadelphia and took us to his favorite hangout, and I ate yet another subpar panini. Every time I was let down, I texted Michelle: “Just tried a panini that was not yours. Do not recommend it.”
Meanwhile, back in Michelle’s kitchen, things were busy. She got serious about baking and ran a small cookie business for a time. She learned to tailor recipes around all her friends’ and family’s food allergies, making desserts that were no less delicious. Sometimes, when she’s working on a big project, or cooking for a party, she’ll call me over to help; no matter how arduous the task is, I agree because she says the magic words: “If you help me, I’ll feed you!” During one outing, we frosted four dozen cookies, and then I watched her casually bake three more cakes after that.
But Michelle does not only feed on barter. Every year, right before my birthday, I get a text from her. “What am I cooking you for your birthday?” It doesn’t matter if I already have plans; one of Michelle’s meals and a birthday cake she’s made from scratch are non-negotiables. When she texted me this year, my answer was automatic. “I want paninis!” Though we’re no longer eating in that tiny apartment without a table, the ethos established during those days sticks with me. I always come back to what’s simple, reliable, and never disappoints. I always come back to Michelle, who is still a balm for all of life’s crazy, who still nourishes all the baby birds around her. I’ve traveled all over and never found a better panini or a better friend.
This article originally appeared in the July/August 2026 issue of (585).
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