In this world there are a few universal truths. Gravity will always pull things down, it is never a good idea to drink milk through your nose, Keira Knightley will always be the perfect woman and no one will ever make “the perfect sandwich.” Many have tried, but none have succeeded.
Of course, there are legends. Some say that Confucius made the perfect sandwich when he placed a piece of cured yak between two slices of banana bread. Those who believe in the Mayan calendar maintain that the perfect sandwich will be made on Dec. 21, 2012, when the world will be sandwiched between two giant, scrumptious asteroids.
I believe that the perfect sandwich was created Jan. 2, 2010, at 6:13 pm by a 17-year-old columnist who wanted a snack. It all started in my freezer. I had to find some bread: good, solid, respectable bread. I needed bread I could trust. I dug around in the freezer. Raisin bread is good, but it doesn’t have the crusty-ness that makes a sandwich spectacular. I passed ciabatta rolls, brioche and pita. I was just about to give up, but then I saw it: French baguette, “The King of Breads.” It was destiny.
Next I needed fillings. My first instinct was tuna salad, but the high levels of mercury associated with fish scared me off. It’s always best to keep mercury as far as possible from Uranus.
Then I thought, why not use apples? They are delicious and nutritious! I sprinted the five feet to the refrigerator and threw open the door, only to discover that we were out of Granny Smites. What a tragedy! It seemed that my quest for the sandwich was destined to be fruitless.
I sulked sullenly back to my kitchen table, slowly realizing the gravity of what I was attempting to do. It was impossible. A single tear slid slowly down my cheek. Gentleman that I am, I would never cry into my sleeve, so I got up to get a tissue. And there it was: a tomato. It was miracle right the on my kitchen counter next to the tissues. I sliced it quickly and put it on my baguette.
When I was a kid I was a huge fan of the “Veggie Tales” movies, and anyone who knows anything knows that the tomato was best friends with the avocado, so I added a little guacamole, just for good measure.
I was so close. I could almost taste victory, but I was missing one ingredient. It was as if there was a whole in my heart that only the perfect cheese could fill. Was it Muenster? Was it Gouda? How about fine Brie? One by one I eliminated the varieties, until only one remained: Swiss, the holiest of cheeses.
The sandwich was complete. It smelled of all that is good and right in the world. It represented freedom, equality and glory. It was the perfect sandwich, the whole package, the Keira Knightley of baked goods. I sat down on the couch, curled up in my Darth Vader fleece blanket and took a big bite. Then I passed out from sheer happiness.
When I woke up, the sandwich was gone. Had it all been a dream? No, it was real, but like I said, it’s a law of nature. The perfect sandwich cannot exist in this world. Someday, when I pass on, I hope to share a tomato, guacamole and Swiss cheese sandwich with Jesus and Buddha. But for now I will be perfectly happy ordering it whenever I eat at Baker’s Best, because, as it turns out, they thought of it first.
