friday, may 9th, 2008

I have a dirty little secret and it’s not one I like to discuss in polite culinary company. However, after much deliberation I’ve finally decided that I’m ready to admit it to the world. Getting to this point has been a struggle but I’ve resolved to take the steps necessary to overcome my problem. Deep breath. Shoulders back. Here goes…

I hate sandwiches.

“What sort of weirdo doesn’t like sandwiches?” you ask. The answer is this sort of weirdo. Who doesn’t like sandwiches? Fillings of all colors, textures and flavors married in a perfect union between two slices of bread. It’s a no-brainer for most, but not for me.

My aversion to sandwiches has elicited many a raised eyebrow and ousted me from the tight fraternity of sandwich lovers more often than I would like to admit. It has also left me hungry. Sandwiches are, after all, the perfect portable food. I was once on a weekend long white water rafting trip that included all meals in the price and unfortunately for me, all meals meant all sandwiches, all the time. Breakfast sandwiches, lunch sandwiches, dinner sandwiches. Not a single bowl of corn flakes in sight. No apples or granola bars shoved into the corners of my guide’s backpack. I went hungry that weekend and what should have been two days of ecstatic paddling through the crashing waves of a raging river turned into 48 hours of misery. Starving as I was, I could hardly lift my paddle, let alone laugh as the cold white river hit my face.
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