A Sandwich Story

Look at that sandwich. Don't you want to eat that sandwich? I want to want to eat that sandwich, but the truth is that I was afraid to eat it. That's right, I experience food fear periodically and somewhat randomly. I'm not sure what happens but there's a little audible *click!* in my head that makes me unable to eat something I've prepared.

Your instinct might be to suggest that perhaps I need to take some cooking classes and maybe I should stop putting Spam in everything. I don't feel an inordinate amount of pride about many of my skills (just get me going on laundry) but I know I am a good cook because my family has a very discerning palate and it took years but they all agree now that I am an excellent cook. The opinions of my family members matters a whole lot more than I like to admit.

No, I don't know why it is but it has always happened. In spite of having been raised as a vegetarian and deciding to remain one, the first two dishes I actually mastered were: polenta with butter and rosemary, and perfectly roasted cornish game hens.

Yes, I have shoved my hand up a cornish game hen's sorry carcass to retrieve the bag of offal charmingly referred to as the "giblets". I have basted dead birds' bodies carefully with their own meat juices and delivered to a few guests what I hear was a very tender and delicious dinner. This is what I prepared for my room mate and a few of our fashion design friends in an effort to make the large nosed Lucca from Florence decide he had to marry me.

Instead he told me how, back home in Florence, all women named Angelina are very old ladies with multiple chin hairs.

Damn him. I've got five of them now.

The bastard knew I was going to have chin hairs, a love of aprons instead of stockings, and become a whole lot more ample. That's why he didn't want to take me home to his mother.

I got him back by calling him "Stallone Pantone" all the time after asking him how to say "stud muffin" in Italian.

I never tasted my own crispy golden cornish game hens because by the time I learned to make them I had decided that I was never going to become accustomed to the revolting texture of meat and it was a waste of time and potentially enjoyable meals to try and acquire a tolerance for it. Making those birds also taught me that I didn't intend to regularly (read: EVER AGAIN) touch dead flesh.

You would think I learned that lesson the day my dad left me a note thumb-tacked to a whole raw chicken when I was babysitting my sister after having taken acid for the first time the previous evening. However disturbing the texture of dead chicken skin is on a good clear day, it doesn't compare to the nightmare of moving undulating pores that it is right after you've come down from tripping on LSD.

Just for the record- I hated doing acid. I don't like psychedelic drugs. Actually, the only drugs I like are beer and cigarettes*. I did acid two more times before I realized that I really truly hated being high. Really. I know what it is to have hallucinations generated by my own wacky brain, what do I need to simulate being miserable for? My brain is a factory of fun all by itself. In fact, as it turns out, I have to take medicine to make it stop tripping all over the place.

Anyway. About the cheese. I made chevre cheese from raw cow's milk. It smells kind of sweet. It smells good yet it's not what I want. I can't bring myself to taste it. So I made this wonderful sandwich for Philip. He loved it. He loves the cheese. The cheese turned out great. But I can't convince myself to go wild and try it.

It isn't feta. I like feta. No, I am obsessed by feta. I miss feta and would happily trade in my shares in the Tillamook cheddar cheese factory for a nice big block of salty tangy crumbly and savory feta. More than avocados, more than lemons, I miss feta. I don't want a sweet cheese. I want it salty and tangy. The same way life comes to me. Feta with kalamata olives is how love tastes when sculpted by the sun beating down on dry soil.

I never taste a dressing until it's poured over my salad. The thought of having to taste a spoonful of any kind of "spread" for sandwiches makes me choke on my own tongue. Double that sensation if the spread has any amount of mayo in it. These are things that once in their designated food melange are absolute heaven.

Sometimes I make something that sounded really good before I actually have it in front of me. Philip will eat these meals and tell me they're very good. I made a lentil soup not long ago and I was craving it until I had the happy idea of putting some basil pistou in it. The second I let the giant spoonful of basil puree drop into the soup I knew I had ruined it. It still smelled good, and I actually did have a bowl of it** and even though most of my senses were telling me it tasted good, my body revolted and wanted to push it back up. Yum. So I didn't eat any more of it.

Philip says the cheese is very very good.





*I haven't smoked in four years so spare me any lectures.