I doin’t always sit down with a plan on what to write.  Some days I’ve got the topic days in advance, some days, days like today, I just let the words flow – I don’t know what’s coming, but I speak from the heart.  Let the words flow out.  Unfiltered.  Unedited.  Unabated…

What I’m about to say is undoubtedly controversial; sure to stir up questions, elicit much ire, and may shun me from some circles.  So before I really get into it, let me first say that I am now, and always have been a fan of all things cheese.  I love a fondue,  I serve up charcuterie at least once a month,  I have subscribed to what is now likely years of ‘cheese of the month’ subscriptions, I’ve toured many a factory, sampled countless varieties and have even dabbled in making my own.  Cheese is something I hold on a pedestal, not just because it’s a delicious way to spend time eating, but because it brings people together.  It’s what bonds people together.  Suffice to say: I love cheese.  And so when I say that, with all the bries, the blues, the sheep’s, goat’s and cow’s taken into consideration, that there may be no better tasting cheese in this world than that tiny little cheese nubbin’ you’re left with after grating a block old cheddar.

Dramatic flare cast aside – I don’t know if it’s because I see it as a reward for the work I just did, or because it’s this tiny little secret cheese piece that no one else but me will ever have a chance to enjoy, or some other mysterious reason beyond human explanation.  Whatever the reason, that little leftover piece of cheese feels special, coveted, even, as my kids hover around waiting to snatch it from the cutting board in the event I turn my back.  For Audrey – it’s actually the only cheese she’ll eat; no lie.  It’s a funny thing how I could slice a piece from the same brick and it just wouldn’t be the same.  Not many foods can make such a claim – turkey, perhaps being the most notable and famous of such tropes.  Oh the memories I have of me hovering around the cutting board while my dad carved the bird.  All of it was delicious, of course, but that little piece he’d give me, straight from the carving knife to my pinchy little fingers; nothing beats that.

Cutting boards and scraps aside, perhaps the most anomalistic culinary example of ‘the same food tasting better for inexplicable reasons’ known to our species, the phenomenon no human can explain, is the experience of a sandwich made by someone else.  It doesn’t matter if you’ve used the exact same ingredients, with the same ratios placed in the same order, the sandwich you made for yourself will pale in comparison to the one made by your mom, your spouse, your friend, ‘Jim’ from down the street, or the artist behind the counter.  The power of the gifted sandwich is undeniable.  Show me some who disagrees and I will show you either a liar or someone who has yet to live.  So much do I believe this to be true that I’ve given up making my own sandwiches.  I will, of course, feed myself, and I will make a sandwich for anyone else who desires it, but to go through the effort that I know will only end in disappointment for myself, is a task I hung up long ago.

Let me be clear:  I do not expect or ask to be doted on.  I do not view anyone in my life, or anyone else’s for that matter, as my servant.  I am better than no one, but I will also respect my palate, and if a sandwich should find its way in front of me – one made with love, consideration and care – then I will bow down in gratitude to those who made it happen.

The sandwich is also one of those ‘universal anytime foods’.  In a rare class that I would put alongside pancakes, a plate of bacon, or crepes, the sandwich neither knows nor cares for the time of day.  The sandwich exists both at, and in between meal times, and yet I rarely consider it as an option and I never put it on my weekly menu planner.  Why is that?  Why is this beautiful blank canvas absent from my culinary repertoire?  I think it’s because the only thing better than a sandwich made by someone else, is a surprise sandwich.

Look, if I know a sandwich is coming my way then I have expectation.  I have a vision already set in my head of what will be on it and how it will taste.  Expectations of any kind are near impossible to match, but when it comes to this – well, I prefer to live my life without planned disappointment.  Just the other day, in a rush out the door to get to an appointment, after a slog of a work day, and poor planning on my part for how I would feed myself any semblance of dinner, with my shoes on and one foot out the door, my beautiful, remarkable, incredible human of a partner in this life came to kiss me goodbye and hand me a zip up snack pouch – “make sure you eat” she said, and the door closed behind me.  Climbing into the front seat of the car, I opened up what she had given me, and with a golden light shining and doves emerging from the trees all around me, I reached in and pulled forth the first half of what would be the best thing I have tasted since I don’t know when: a surprise sandwich made with love.  Life does not get any better.