At this moment, somewhere in the universe, someone is eating a sandwich.
That sandwich is either:
a) mindblowingly amazing. The sandwich of the Gods. The mythical, the legendary, the epitome of all.
b) everything one would expect in a sandwich. Adequate. Everyday. Good ol’ PBJ/Bologna/Ham/Fluffernutter.
or
c) contains liverwurst, pimento loaf, egg salad or other such unmentionables.
Sandwiches are the go-to lunch food of the collective whether they be on whole-wheat, white or gluten-free rolls, I have never met an individual who has stood up and actively stood against the sandwich.
Today I ate two sandwiches. Not at the same time, mind you, but within hours of one another. I never once thought of myself as a two sandwich a day kind of gal. There are days and weeks that go by before I put that heavenly combination of cheese, meat and bread in my mouth. I can’t really even say that I actively miss the sandwich when I go on my unplanned sub sabbaticals–nothing in my life changes.
Yet, talking with a few others leads me to believe that the sandwich is an integral part of their lunchtime ritual. They each have their cold-cut preference along with a penchant for specific condiments. I have met those who have specific guidelines regarding their mustard and a good portion of people who actively despise mayonnaise. I think diehard sandwich people are relatively trustworthy folk–after all, they have enough fidelity towards their lunchtime choices.
Sandwiches, man, sandwiches.
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