Following a link from one of my favourite websites, I surfed over to Cubicle Dweller and was most delighted to find that he used a term that I had always thought the invention of another dear friend. Now I not only have an etymology for a delightfully useful and whimsical word, but also a new addition to my list of useful places to find meaning!

Not only that, but I also have a link to a chap who has a delightful turn of phrase when describing his passion for that ubiquitous luncheon fare, the sandwich. Personally I am not overly inspired by sandwiches, as a general rule, although there have been occasions when a sandwich has seemed the defining moment of an experience.

Like the occasion when making a left-over sandwich from a Christmas dinner of note and discovering that one could not fit all the bits onto the totally inadequately sized croissant, so dumping the lot onto a plate and wondering outside into the heat of the morning while picking at the viands with my fingers.
Or the cold winter’s afternoon racing from work to the local markets with a workmate so that we could buy a baked bean, bacon and chip butty and then eating it with a big mug of hot sweet tea standing in the markets with the cold wind blowing in from the north presaging the snow storm that arrived later that day just in time to make it difficult to see the bus coming to take us home in the winter-dark.
Or the exquisite fresh salmon served with a frission of cress on fresh sourdough smeared with just the lightest touch of crème frais whilst overlooking the Southern Ocean at Esperance in Western Australia and marvelling at the intense blueness of the water over the whiteness of the sand bars.
Or the hearty slab of steak smothered in tomato ketchup between two thick doorsteps of crumbly damper served at a youth camp under eucalypt trees that drop their gum-nuts into the fire making it spark and flare while we tell outrageous ghost stories and then can’t sleep.
Or the elegant thinly sliced tomato and cucumber sandwiches served on paper fine porcelain laid on an elegantly embroidered cloth served with Orange Pekoe tea in a silver teapot on a lazy Sunday afternoon full of the drowsy scent of late roses and the hum of bees and desultory conversation that devolves into giggles as the puns get worse and more convoluted.
Or the pressed sandwich recipe copied from The Two Fat Ladies that didn’t quite work at an family picnic, with the result that all the bits dropped out and I felt so embarrassed (at least it tasted okay if the bits landed on a plate).
Or the looks on the faces of my children as they complain that they wanted shop bread sandwiches like their school mates, rather than the bread I make … then years later them telling me that they love my homemade bread for their sandwiches!

Actually, I think that I have underestimated the extent to which sandwiches have had an influence in my life. I think I will go and make a sandwich for lunch and sit outside in my lovely spring garden and contemplate this interesting situation.
And if you are wondering, I made some basil/garlic/pine-nut bread that I shall be layering with fresh roast pork and cold beetroot in a citrus sauce. How’s that for a sandwich?!

How’s that for a wibble?