Originally published by The Clifton Courier, January 23, 2019

I’ve been challenged to write about sandwiches.

Of course, when I say challenged, I mean the subject matter was lightly suggested to me after I found myself without a column topic and begged the girls in my group chat for guidance.

At first I was sceptical of the topic, but the conversation in my Snapchat coven quickly lit up, ranging from revelations about the preferred butter ratio (one woman, whose identity has been supressed for ethical reasons, reckons sangas don’t need butter) to suggestions for new sandwiches to try (I’ve added Vegemite and Doritos to my to-do list). But the most intriguing line of conversation was the discussion about sandwiches of our pasts.

We all used to eat things we might not necessarily put between two slices of bread now, which is an extremely interesting thought when you’re desperately scraping the barrel to fill a newspaper column.

Driven by a desire to make something from nothing, I continued to unpack that thought. If I looked back at my sandwich history, what would I learn about myself?

So I began to list all the sandwiches I’d ever loved before and things got a little weird*:

* It’s at this point that I’d like to point out that I began writing this at about 1.20am, when I had literally no other ideas. I tried nutting out a few others – some were about my chequered dental past, others were about heaven knows what. I couldn’t settle on an idea and my tired, panicky brain flitted all over the place like a scared little mouse. I don’t recall what time I finally decided that misleadingly metaphoric sandwiches was the direction I was taking my column this week, but I didn’t go to bed until just before 4am. So, please, bear that in mind before you read on. 

Roast lamb, potato and gravy: I have referenced potato/hot chippie sandwiches far too often. So I’ll refrain from singing their praises to avoid sounding as if I’m starting a potato-based cult, adding a little lamb to mix things up. I recently made a batch of these for a shared Christmas lunch, using red wine from my glass for the gravy like a grown up and mini dinner rolls instead of everyday bread to make things extra festive – nothing’s more festive than a dinner roll. And, look, I don’t want to big note myself, but they were super popular (I had four).

Pizza shapes and strawberry jam: My childhood best friend and I were a quirky pair. We were wild and whacky and our sandwich choices reflected that. I didn’t mind if people thought we were different, in fact, enjoyed it. So when people recoiled at my lunch, I loved it.

Only, I can’t help but think my desire to seem zany outweighed my enjoyment of this combination. I convinced myself I liked it, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t for me.*

* If you’re reading between the lines here, you’ll assume that these bready insights into my past could be euphemisms for a long trail of lovers. And, heck, that’s fair to assume. But I have a rule about writing about my gentlemen callers. Not that I judge other writers for doing so, but I have never felt a need to write about them nor would I feel comfortable doing so. Perhaps one day my opinion on the matter will change, but I think writing about them would be quite unfair. Plus, it’s the only thing keeping me from typifying the tragic Carrie Bradshaw copycat stereotype.

Two Minute chicken noodles on white bread with a slathering of butter: Whenever I publicly admit to eating this, people react as if I’d used a slice of Wonder White to mop up the sides of a sullage pit. And I can understand that. The addition of bread to a highly-processed noodles seems extremely unnecessary. The whole things sounds like a soggy, claggy mess. And it was. But seven-year-old Dannielle, who had a zest for life, carbs and no nutritional understanding whatsoever, loved them.

I know I should be repulsed by the idea of this sandwich, but I just can’t be. Sure, it wasn’t great for me, but at the time it was everything I wanted.*

* Yep, maybe you also have a Maggi two-minute Chicken Noodle man in your past. I don’t. But can I just say, with no expertise or authority whatsoever, if you happen to run into this fellow while going “back home” for the weekend, don’t drunkenly hook up with him. If you run into him, suggest a nice, sober cup of something generic and warm, allowing you to calmly reassess whether he really was the one who got away or if you’ve suddenly become aware that you’re facing five weddings without a plus one.

Ice cream sandwiches: These were not dollops of gourmet ice cream wedged between soft biscuits. No, this was a scoop from a family-sized bucket of vanilla smeared on just-cooked toast. It was a favourite at my friend’s house. Her and her sister would bang on about it like it was the coolest thing since crimped hair.

And I went along with it for a while, but I eventually realised that this wasn’t some whizbang dessert revolution, it was just runny ice cream on soggy toast. And I was better that.*

* So are you, girl. Be better than milky toast. Accept better than milky toast. You’re at least worth a Maxibon, so don’t settle for sog.   

Egg and lettuce: I once absentmindedly declared that egg and lettuce sandwiches were better than… something that’s supposed to be the best thing ever*. Obviously, this led to an onslaught of justly deserved jokes from those within earshot. And while I may not stand by my exact wording, I do stand by the sentiment. Eggy letty sangs are great. But if you want to make them greater, I’d recommend adding a layer of crushed salt and vinegar chips for a bit of extra crunch**.

* I thought I was very clear that I’d said “egg and lettuce sandwiches are better than sex”, but a few friends told me they thought the something that’s supposed to be the best thing ever was sliced bread. And that’s good, because hopefully the rest of Clifton will also interpret it that way and not equate my sex life to a sandwich you can get at a servo. 

** When you see it through the “better than sex” interpretation, this sounds like I’m advocating for getting kinky with a sensible, egg and lettuce sandwich of a lover. And that’s probably very good advice. But I’m not telling you to go out and buy a gimp mask; I’m honestly imploring you to try putting salt and vinnie chippies on your sanga. 

Bega cheese and strawberry jam: I credit this sanga for preparing my for my gourmet days of smearing goats’ cheese on crusty baguettes with a bit of a quince paste. I recommend all parents start feeding these sandwiches to their kids if they want them to grow up to be the kind of adults who eat cheese platters as a weeknight dinner. Go ahead, make the world a better place!

*** Another thing to come out of my writing this column was the rediscovery of this song, after I suggested to my Snapchat coven that we could have a sandwich dinner party where everyone brings their fave sanga. It not only was hilariously relevant, but it took us back to a time when we watched movies taped from the TV on the VCR. It was at the end of an Austin Powers movie, recorded by the oldest sister in the group, who was way, way cooler than us.