DH Uncategorized

The blade was sharp. Forged of Ronco steel, its serrated edge cut through the loaf of crusty Italian bread as if it were soft butter. The blade was tried and true, part of a “special offer” that he had acquired one sleepless night via 1-800 number — though the Showtime Knife and Carving Knife lay unused alongside the enigmatic Poultry Shears, sheathed in a wooden block upon the countertop. “The day I use these shears to cut poultry, and not to cut the sleeves off my t-shirts, will be the day that pigs fly,” jested Dave, to no one in particular.

He was dressed in casual garb — basic cotton crew-neck shirt, gym shorts of House Nike and worn Adidas sandals. My how the lords of House Nike and House Adidas would fret, had they known he wore both siguls at the same time! It was of no matter, however, as he completely focused on the task at hand.

With the Italian loaf split down the center, Dave turned to the ice box. It was as tall structure, probably 6’5”, and as wide as an aurochs. He pulled open the ivory white door, adorned with “Save the Date” magnets of weddings-to-be-held and photos of days past, via its sturdy, reinforced plastic handle. Inside, it contained three shelves, the width of the box itself. Its cold air breathed upon him in the summer heat.

Below were two humidity drawers — curiously labeled “crisper,” though he wagered they haven’t crisped much since his lord-of-land purchased the unit in 1998. Despite their intended use — to hold common vegetables, like cucumber, lettuce and tomato — he instead stored packaged cold cuts inside. “Out of sight, out of mind,” he thought, mindful to preserve his stock of valuable deli meats for as long as possible from hungry roommates.

Dave made his selection carefully: two types of fowl, both turkey and chicken, labeled with the Head of Boar that denoted its quality; and a package of cow’s milk cheese labeled provolone. The meat was hand-sliced not a day prior by Agnes of Hannaford, though the cheese had been imported, pre-sliced.

The meat was contained in a clear plastic bag with a zip-top. He peeled the bag apart, grasping the extra plastic above the zip between thumb and forefinger, and gently slid the cold cuts out of their sheath. One by one he lay the cuts onto the bottom portion of the split loaf, taking care to balance the portions. The fowl was an opaque white with a charred, peppered edge — a sign that it had been cooked and smoked for hours. He then piled on the provolone — three slices in all, as the cheese was pungent and full of flavor.

Dave moved surgically, though he was not without fault. It was easy to drop a piece of turkey, and it happened occasionally, though he was intent on not letting that happen this time. But when a bird shot across the kitchen window, Keith let out a yelp that startled the young lord, and he did drop a slice.

Keith had been at Dave’s feet for at least a minute — he always came running when he heard the rustling of ziplock. The burnt orange-and-white spotted jack russell was always intent on sandwich-making, especially when Dave was at task, and his black-button eyes followed every move. He was a small but fit terrier, approximately 12 pounds, with a high-pitched bark that could split glass. Though energetic, he was loveable; the little guy simply had an attention span of a goldfish. Except when deli meat was involved.

Keith snatched the piece off the floor with lightning quickness — for it was the moment he was waiting for. Dave sighed in defeat, knowing the deed had been done. All was not lost though.

With the cold cuts and cheese in place, he reached back into the icebox for a jar of Mayonnaise — a thick, creamy emulsion of egg yolk, oil and vinegar, adorned with the white-on-blue Hellmann’s sigul. He slathered a thin layer of mayo onto the top half of the bread, using a common butter knife to complete the task. He then placed the top loaf upon the bottom, and a sandwich was born.

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