Picture this if you will.
After writing my last post, I went home and cooked a fantastic curry, worked on some uni things, played some percussion and then had a glass or two of fine wine.
Then I decided to make my lunch. Thus violating one of my firmest rules: never make a salad for the next day's lunch when you're a few sheets to the wind. I had to implement this law after a few very depressing lunchtimes. Nothing quite sucks all the fun out of your lunchbreak like the discovery that your chickpea/kalamata olive/red capsicum/marshmallow/cucumber salad really is nothing more than soggy cold things in a box. But I digress. My plan was to make a boiled egg salad, with rocket, cucumber, dill mayonnaise, maybe some chopped capsicum and gherkins. Tasty! While my egg simmered, rummagings into the fridgermerator revealed an eclectic yet disparate selection of ingredients: a single passionfruit cupcake, past its prime; a large jar of minced garlic; half a purple onion; a pumpkin; several Lindt chocolate bunnies, whose neck bells tinkled merrily as I pushed them aside in search of cucumber.
My salad was doomed. All I had was rocket, egg, tomato and purple onion. We didn't even have any mayonnaise. The next morning, I had the presence of mind to check my salad before packing it to take to work: while nowhere near as grim as some of my previous late night salad specimens have been, it certainly lacked inspiration and, well, zazz. And then I remembered the delight of the sammich.
Behold.
Wait, wait, wait; this picture doesn't do it justice. You can't tell that I spread the bread on one slice with overripe avocado, and on the other with cream cheese mixed with minced dill.
You can't tell that I gently mashed the boiled egg onto the cream cheese, topped it with finely chopped purple onion and tomato, then piled high with rocket. Then wrapped it all up and ported it to work.This picture sums up the poetry, the sheer divinity, of the sammich I had today, may it rest in peace.
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