Today, I created this awesome floating bird feeder out of an old printers tray:
Sweet, eh?
Suck it, Etsy.
And now that that major task has been accomplished, I really have nothing else on the docket for the day other than maybe make myself a fancy egg salad sandwich for lunch to celebrate, because that’s just how I roll on the weekend. Anyway, every time I make an egg salad sandwich I think of my father who, it must be said – was the consummate master of the egg salad sandwich.
He could somehow elevate your average basic egg salad into a tasty, albeit gassy art form.
However, unlike I do now, my father never would have given a second thought to using such things as red onion, pickles, mustard, or *gasp* … smoked Spanish paprika.
He probably accuse me of being a Communist.
In fact, he’d probably disown me altogether if ever saw this fancy ass egg sandwich in front of me now; tasty as it is. My father, you see, preferred the more, shall we say, “traditional” approach to preparing a proper egg salad sandwich. And by “traditional”, I mean he used a shit ton of mayonnaise, salt, pepper, onion and of course, the egg bits. Oh, and not that real mayonnaise shit neither, but Miracle Whip, the true abomination of all the mayonnaise’s – if not the entire condiment world bar, say, Vegemite or Marmite.
That shit is just fucking nasty!
My father was also very careful to not to add too much egg to the Miracle Whip either; just enough to turn the goop into a pale, lifeless yellow. He would then smear the gloppy mess between two slices of bleached white bread and, PRESTO!
Heaven on a plate.
Essentially, it tasted like Miracle Whip with a hint of egg and onion and, for whatever reason …
Nectar of the gods.
There was no lettuce to give it “texture”, nor were there any fancy herbs or spices to “brighten it up”, but it was somehow elegant and refined, all the while still being completely unhealthy as all get out. I’m pretty sure that every egg salad sandwich my father made us inevitably took a year off our life expectancy, but I don’t regret a single mouthful.
I’m not sure how it was even possible given how little effort went into making it – and don’t give me that “love” shit neither. The only explanation is that my father sold his soul to the devil very much like Robert Johnson did at the infamous crossroads, except that in my dads case, he sold it for one kick ass egg salad sandwich recipe.
Go figure.
Sadly, I think if my father were still around, he’d probably look at my completely pretentious looking shit show of a sandwich (tasty as it is) today and immediately assume that the “barbarians are at the gate”, so to speak. The resulting conversation (i.e. shaming) would inevitably go something along these lines:
“Is that Romaine lettuce?”, he’d ask shaking his head forlornly; clearly experiencing a moment of shame for his eldest son.
“Were they out of Wonder bread?”, he might ask hopefully, referring to my choice to go with a healthier and therefore darker multi-grain load instead*.
“Is that some kind of fancy egg-slicing knife? Is a fork too good for you now?”
“What in the Sam Hell is a ‘melange blend’? Is that a sex thing?”
“I think you should get your eyes checked, you brought home ‘Greek Yogurt’ instead of the Miracle Whip”.
It would be at this point where he’d begin to mentally write me out of his will for sheer embarrassment.
From there it would be a litany of trivial questions all aimed at piling on the insult to injury. Such things like “What’s that red stuff?” (red onions), “Why does it look so weird?” (smoke Spanish paprika), “What’s that green shit?” (chive), and what would likely end up being my personal favourite: “Jesus Christ son, is that pickle? What’s wrong with you?”
The barrage would be non-stop and deadly.
I’d rather be raped by Gordon Ramsey in Hell’s Kitchen that ever face my father down over one of my healthy bullshit sandwiches. But what else can I say? I simply can’t make my father’s incredible egg salad sandwiches as they just can’t be replicated – they’re impossible anomalies. The bar had been set, so to speak. So instead I make what feels right to me these days, and in this case today that feels a whole like pickle, smoke Spanish paprika, and copious amounts of pretentious bullshit.
Sorry, dad.
God help me.
God Help Me! 