Category Archives: Uncategorized

Under a soggy snow tarp.

Watching men duck their snow wet heads and bow into the Blue and White for lunch. No line today. Assembly line style. Tall man in, tall man out.

Then just me thinking about a bologna sandwich – a cross section of a dachshund – $1.30. One dollar and 30 cents!!?? I have never opened my wallet for a bologna sandwich, and could have kept a clean record by digging for loose change in my pockets.

Cept the streets are covered in concrete flavored slurpee and I wanted something hot. Pork chop sandwich and collard greens, with everything. $4.70. Two chops, with bones for gnawing. Sticking to the meat, finger dented, white bread keeps your hands clean. With everything. $4.70.Everything in Blue and White world is lego-size onion diamonds, hot sauce and vinegar. On a raw day, what more could you need?

Sandwiches rock so hard. They are sort of a maligned artifact in today’s cusinary.

Cusinary?

How true. I didn’t say it and I agree.

American Sandwich turned up in my mailbox today in a plain brown envelope. A Gift?! For me?! And this postcard. Jenn in LA always knows what to do. A real class act, she is.

There are, oddly enough, no pictures of sandwiches in this book. Budgetary, I’ll betcha. However, loads of old postcards grace the pages and cusinary puzzlers, true headscratchers.

• Hot Hamburgers. As opposed to what?

• The Hippo. Extra long toothpicks required.

• Cheese Frenchee. With American and Swiss cheeses.

• Fleischkuechle. Fleisch looks so much nicer than meat. Sensuous.

I’m digging this book and plan to use it as a roadmap, glove compartmented. Rolling for Pork Roll!

It’s only January 10th or 11th and just the faintest sliver of 2008 has passed. My resolution, to read more, is fresh. Fresh enough that there is a mist of condensation beading on the top of the bag, hovering over the top crust. My resolution has been sealed airtight, but it is still warm from the oven and smells of growth, of yeast.

To read more. That’s all. Simple. Contingent on someone else around here reading more, which he does, and will. Perhaps he will read the following instructions, take them to heart, then hand, and make me one, a sandwich. I’ll take anything. Blue and pink marshmallows swaddled in cold bread? Mmmmm. I can read to that.

Shouldn’t I have this?

Original, signed Chris Mars Horseshoes and Handgrenades print available [#45/1000]. This is a sweet deal at $500 USD framed. Especially considering that his paintings sell for gonzo money [$14,000 – $75,000]. If have an interest in this amazing piece contact terra_bella773 (at) yahoo (dot) com

Pride of Springfield, Illinois – The Horseshoe. They say there is a sandwich under them thar fries.

You could toss a handgrenade around here and not hit a horseshoe. A horseshoe sandwich, that is. Close enough, I am not. The famous horseshoe, the kind you eat, is at least 3 states away, maybe four. I’d have to get out the atlas to know for sure.

As in love as I am with indigenous sandwich monstosities, the horseshoe never entered my field of vision until my binoculars were pointed in the direction of Springfield, Illinois by Amazing Bob on the Bottle Rockets message board.

Sandwiches buried in sauce would be a subset in my field guide. Yes, there are two pieces of bread, but a fork and knife are essential. Err, recommended.

From what I understand, if you eat a horseshoe in its entirety you may feel as though you pulled the pin and swallowed a buttered handgrenade…

Rebecca: This is so bad it’s almost good.

Enid: This is so bad it’s gone past good and back to bad again.

Panini is out. That’s what I read in the Washington Post.

I actually made these panini. For the Hamilton Beach panini press package. Boy, they sure do look clean. Squeeeeeek. Like they’ve had a good spraydown with Psssssst. (Count. It’s the right number of s’s.)

Bánh Mí is in. Check out Song Que in Falls Church, VA and Banh Mi in Annandale, VA. You can look at my Banh Mi post here.

Oh also! (You are so welcome for keeping you current.) Gouda is out. Burrata is in. If you have to ask what Burrata is? Well. No comment. Salami is out. Red Wattle Sausage is in. What the hell is Red Wattle Sausage?

Some things old are new again. This phrase, so out of date, “I’ll have what you are serving,” makes my heart skip with joy. Aah, to eat what you are served. How fine. How civilized. Food is, after all, an offering, requesting an extension of trust, a bridge crossed. The suspicions of childhood put to rest. Ha! Could I be more deluded? And I’m not just talking about the under 21 crowd.

“Please don’t dissect your food,” I say to my son and his friends. Please don’t disassemble it. That piece of bread you are poking full of holes? The earth grew the wheat, the wheat was harvested, turned to flour, carried to the bakery, baked into bread, packaged, carried, sold, brought home by me with the money I earned, unwrapped, made into a sandwich, carried to the table and given to you. Please don’t disassemble it. “Please don’t poke it full of holes.” Eyes rolling around the table. Sheesh, mom. And guys, that’s just the bread, for your information.

What would I like in the new year? To hear, “I’ll have what you are serving,” or simply benefit from its practice.

Could I not have to make picnic sandwiches with everything tasty on the side – mayonnaise, mustard, horseradish, pepper? Would it be all right if I chose your bread for you? Could you trust me a teensy bit? Could I put the green stuff ON the sandwich. And maybe go wild with a little onion? And would you please, please, please say, “Oh, thank you. Delish!” and eat it up? It’s an old-fashioned notion, I know, and sounds so fresh and new again. Here! Here!

Peace in the New Year. Starting at the table.

The Transcultural Exchange builds round-the-world ties that bind.

Blue and White Carry-Out in the Parker-Gray neighborhood of Alexandria, VA is en route to my mother’s place and an irresistible quick stop. The parking meters beckon to me, their stubby steel fingers crooked, as I approach that intersection. All shut up tight and cozy it was, on New Year’s Eve 2007.

And here it is clean shaven and fresh-faced through the lens of MarieMcC.

Read my post about the pork chop sandwich here.

Every town needs a One Cold Hand chapter.

I’ve got a pair of grey ladies’ gloves hanging in the lowest crook of a tree out front, where I put them after picking them out of the gutter. Musta dropped out of a driver’s lap when she got out. My hope that they will be reunited with two cold hands is fading, as they have been hanging limply for over two weeks. Each rainfall decreases their desirability.

In the meantime, I hope their owner has one hand wrapped around a toasty hot sandwich and the other around a stinging hot cup of coffee.

The airwaves of Madison, Wisconsin carried Music From the True Vine, my three hours of audio euphoria, Wednesday afternoons in the late 70’s. One afternoon, while reading a LOST PARAKEET ad, the phone jangled. Found parakeet! A sweet reunion of human and bird was arranged, and my week found its high water mark.

December 24 I was a birthday girl and happy recipient of Secret Ingredients, The New Yorker Book of Food and Drink. Today, Christmas chaos beginning to fade, I spent some incredibly pleasant time with my new book in early morning darkness, hot coffee on the adjacent window sill, duvet snugged all around, small boy still sleeping the sleep that recalls no dreams.