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Making a sandwich is like constructing a home. Your foundation must be sturdy, the interior comforting yet highlighted by an unexpected component. The result should be harmonious, exciting, filling and altogether transcendent. One should paint a picture with their chosen palate; creating highlights, shadows, and bringing forth tones in each corresponding ingredient that would otherwise go unnoticed.
Flowery metaphors aside, making a sandwich is a fucking art, okay? And I’m an artist.
In the morning, before a hike or long car-ride, you can find me crouched over the counter in the kitchen with an array of foodstuffs splayed out before me. Some protein, bread (toasted to perfection), greens, and condiments galore.
Growing up my sister would harp on me for the meticulous attention to detail I reserved for my sandwich making endeavors. I’d offer to make her one, she’d refuse on principle, only to ogle my creation later in the day while she sat hungry and regretful beside me.
This borderline OCD about sandwich toppings and ratios makes it difficult for me to cede control and leave the task at the hands of another. Ordering sandwiches at a deli is trying; I’ll stand there, anxiously peeking over the glass partition, worrying that my standards will not be properly met.
The upside, though, is that if you know me–and you have the privilege of enjoying a picnic or trip by my side–you’ll be treated to marvelous unexpected combinations of the highest degree.
Like any true artist, my work is best enjoyed when it moves another person.