This sandwich is one of two things we introduced to our Minnesota lifestyle when we returned. (The other being the delicious pineapple flavored soda Jupina). We bought a George Foreman grill. We scouted out the perfect English muffin-sized flat bread. We stocked the fridge with generic yellow mustard and sandwich pickles. Every few months, we rip through deli meat and a block of cheddar, and abuse the mustard until it farts Pollack globs on to the bread. The George Foreman develops a rind of melted cheese chips.
The Midnight Sandwich is an elixir. Like pizza or Super Potato Oles. It's name comes from a time when these sandwiches were served late at night in bars and clubs, presumably to combat the effects of the drink.
I made one of these sandwiches on Friday night for this exact reason. I piled pastrami on the bread, criss-crossed cheese slices, painted it with mustard, plopped it on the grill. Five minutes later I took a bite. Took another bite. Set the sandwich aside and crawled into bed. That's when the whole mess bungeed from my stomach, ejected itself in curdled waves of glop. I didn't even have time to get to the bathroom. Instead, this mess spilled over the side of the bed and onto the pile of books and magazines I leave next to my bed. The paperbacks were casualties: a copy of Electric Kool Ade Acid Test, a book by Penelope Fitzgerald I scored for a dollar at a Friends of the Library sale. A copy of Real Simple that included two recipes I hadn't gotten around to testing. The two books I am reading: "Cooking Dirty" by Jason Sheehan, and "Juliet, Naked by Nick Hornby. A vegetarian cookbook. The last three are hardcovers. I sprayed them with Pledge, and wiped off the covers. The cookbook may not survive. "Cooking Dirty" seems okay. I had to finish "Juliet, Naked," fingering embedded chunks of the Midnight Sandwich.
So, that was gross. Also: I woke up at 7:36 p.m. So Saturday really did not exist at all on my planet.
2 comments:
OK, so you almost but didn't quite pull a Jimi Hendrix while I was at work. No more of this. From now on, eat your midnight sandwiches before you drink.
That said, kudos for barfing on the books that suck. When you start barfing on serious literature, we'll have words.
what i learned years ago about getting puke out of things from you barfing on the 'grandma susan'is that, even though you can't see it, you can still smell it. pledge, shampoo, carpet cleaner, dish soap, soap soap...nothing works. the smell lingers and hits you when you least expect it. fabric softener sheets, on the other hand, work like a charm. i wish someone had told me this so i didn't have to endure your puke smell in my only piece of furniture for like 3 months. - fannie
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