Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Sandwich. Neither the earl nor the islands.

Perhaps this is the wrong forum in which to discuss this matter. My love of sandwiches is ocean-deep and lifelong. Okay, that statement can be applied to most food, but sandwiches hold a particular sway over my affections. It's worse, now that I'm on this freaking diet.

[NB: "Diet" is "die" with a t. It's also a four-letter word. I'm just saying.]

I started this hideous diet on Thursday, January 28th, in the year of our Lord 2010. The details of the horror will be documented in later posts, fear not, my imaginary friend; I mention the date merely as a marking place for the loss of my beloved. The idea behind this particular method of torture---ahem, diet is relatively simple. Every four days, a different module [AKA method of torture] is used. I can only assume this is to convince the victim that 1) she can survive anything for four days 2) she's not getting bored and 3) better days are ahead.

I'll give you a moment to stop laughing.

Now, to be fair, sandwiches are a part of this [expletive deleted] diet. I get very happy when a "snack" is allowed in the day's intake. My favorite snack is the half of a turkey sandwich---it has saved my sanity on many veggie-bean-and-rice filled days. What isn't allowed is the huge, juicy sub or hoagie sandwiches that I adore.

There's a place called Tub's Gourmet Subs relatively close to where I live. It's pricey--pricier than a lot of chain sandwich shops--but ohhhhh, so worth it. They describe their "Godfather" sandwich as such:

"Garlic mayo, basil-pesto, roast beef, hard salami, parmesan and provolone cheeses; toasted on a baguette, topped with lettuce and tomato. "

Oh, God. That, in the large size, with a huge bag of full-fat potato chips and something chocolate, is all I need in life.'s all I need in life that I have an outside chance of getting. George Clooney has yet to return my calls.

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