Thursday, August 22, 2013

The Dangers of Asking a Feminist For a Sandwich

This is not the BLT you are looking for....
Around noon I started smelling the pleasant aroma of bacon wafting out of the kitchen. So, I got excited. I don't go to the extreme of fetishizing bacon as many hipsters do, but I've been familiar with this product since I was a very small child and have generally favorable opinions of its tasty attributes. True, I do bear a lifelong scar on my left wrist as a result of crowding in too close when my mother was cooking bacon when I was four years old, but I hold no lasting grudges. Two factors mitigated against my ability to start salivating like a Great Dane named Ferdinand in Pavlov's waiting room: the first, and lesser of the obstacles to my unadulterated gustatory anticipation, was the fact that we have no mayonnaise in the house. I'm a mayonnaise guy. I love the simplicity of egg, vinegar, maybe a pinch of salt, and distrust Miracle Whip. The second, and more predominant factor is the person frying the bacon is a staunch feminist. Which is fine, so am I, but this particular feminist owes me a sandwich. As in the "Go get me a sammich" kind of sandwich. I acquired the rights to this rare sandwich in the following way: my partner broke her leg playing roller derby, after which I waited on her hand and foot for six weeks. All I asked in return was a voucher for one sandwich, assembled by her, to be named at a later date. 

But as I heard her bustling in the kitchen I had a Seinfeld moment when it occurred to me this was not the sandwich, so I leaped out of my chair and ran to the kitchen to make sure she knew I would be assembling my own BLT on this day and my voucher for one sandwich would be cashed in at a later date, preferably one where I was laying comfortably on the couch watching NFL football. 

I envision it this way: it's the fantasy football championships, my teams all go nuts. Everyone wants to score. All of the rookies and backups I have been cultivating so nurturingly on my bench all come of age and take the field, ending up stars by the afternoon's end. I celebrate by calling the kitchen to put in an order for a BLT on white with real mayonnaise, and take a sip of my frosty beverage awaiting the arrival of my sandwich.

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