I love sandwiches. But I can’t remember the last time I made one with slices of cold meat. I suppose it’s partially reactionary, as I was sent to school with turkey breast, salami or ham tucked between two slices of bread each day growing up. Now it’s the fixins’ I care about most. The more, the merrier. And open-face means there’s no chance the sandwich will get smushed by an apple.
Trial: I get on my bike to run some errands, including a grocery store trip to get ingredients for a classic French salade nicoise. I have a craving for slick, smushed beads of brininess otherwise known as olives. It’s almost ninety degrees outside. I get out of the store, unlock my bike, and get on it only to find that the back tire is sagged like an empty sail.