THE PERFECT SANDWICH

I don’t want to exaggerate, but I just made and ate the best sandwich in all of history.

Oh! The squareness of the bread! The elegant perfection of its grain, its hue, its cut - as though it had been forged by elves in the bakeries of Elrond, and then sliced with Excalibur.

This, I thought to myself, this was the end of the Earl of Sandwich’s journey: the goal, the destination, the raison d’etre, the thing! As he sat there with playing cards in one hand and a primitive sarnie in the other, he must have dreamed that there would come a day when his great idea would finally be perfected.

I sank my teeth into a corner. This might well be the day! A thousand flavours rolled across my tongue, cascading onto my tastebuds like the ocean. Who knew that a sandwich could transport a man from a funny little kitchen to the wild exotic coasts of imagination? I chewed. Before long, a smile split across my face as chunks of perfect sandwich rolled inside, each more delightful than the last. 

All too soon it was gone, the perfect sandwich, leaving just warmth and memory behind. I don’t think I’ll be able to make it again - the universal collision of events and filling and butter and bread might never be quite right. I looked forlornly at the plate and knife, still scattered with crumbs. The kitchen seemed to be glowing with happiness that it had all been involved.

It was magnificent. And yes, I ate the evidence, which means you’ll just have to take my word for it. And you know what? I’m not even sorry. It was the perfect sandwich. And I scoffed it.