Not only is Sesame Street turning 40 this month, Wallace and Gromit turn 20! Many happy returns of the day!
Happy 40th birthday to Sesame Street! In celebration, I suggest you take a one-minute dance party and shake it to the pinball song.
Halloween is over, and Thanksgiving is on the horizon. The good folks at Apartment Therapy’s The Kitchn have posted five tips to help you prepare now for Thanksgiving; I have to admit that you’ll find the most useful hints in the comments, not the article.
This year, both our families’ Thanksiving plans are uncertain, and The Fella and I miiiiiiight have the chance to celebrate the holiday on our own, with a modest vegetarian feast and a cuddle on the couch. We’ve been cautiously daydreaming about the menu, each dish something special that one of us especially loves, and with The Fella’s squash galettes as the centerpiece.
Do you want to know the clincher, the moment when I went from idly daydreaming to hope-hope-hoping? It was during the conversation about pies: he wants pumpkin, I want blueberry, and neither of us wants a whole darned pie. And then I remembered my mini-pie tins, tucked away in a remote cabinet. This year, I want to be thankful for teeny tiny pies.
Sandwich Party IV will take place from Friday, November 27th, to Sunday, November 30th. If you’ve participated before, you know the drill. If you’re new to the Sandwich Party, you can catch up by browsing the Sandwich Party archives here at Macbebekin or at Hillbilly, Please.
To sum up: you eat a sandwich, post a description, recipe, photo, or other sandwichery on your website, your blog, or Flickr, and send us a link to your post. Jag and I will post updates through the weekend. It’s a Sandwich Party!
For inspiration and appetizing ideas, you might check out Chow’s gorgeous sandwich gallery. For geekier sandwich viewing, head to Scanwiches to see glorious full-color cross-section scans of sandwiches of all descriptions.
More sandwich love from my fellow nerds: xkcd shows how to override a companion’s resistance to making you a sandwich, and unwittingly inspired Bre Pettis and Adam Cecchetti to make a sandwich robot prototype.
Jamie Katz tracks down some of Chicago’s great underground sandwiches, including the Freddy, the mother-in-law, the big baby, and the humdinger.
If you’re thinking that some of the Chicago delicacies Katz decribes hardly qualify as a sandwiches, you’re in good company. Allow me to refer you to one legal definition. To sum it up: according to Worcester Superior Court Judge Jeffrey A. Locke, a burrito is not a sandwich.
[chef and former USDA official Chris] Schlesinger explained that a sandwich is of “European roots” and generally recognized as “two pieces of leavened bread,” while a burrito is “specific to Mexico” and typically contains hot ingredients rolled into a flat unleavened tortilla.
Judith A. Quick, who previously worked as a deputy director of the Standards and Labeling Division at the US Department of Agriculture, said in her affidavit: “The USDA views a sandwich as a separate and distinct food product from a burrito or taco.”
If you decide to push the limits of sandwichery, though, you’ll find me more tolerant than Judge Locke. That may soothe you if you desire to submit to the greasy embrace of the KFC Double Down, a would-be sandwich that replaces the bun with two pieces of fried chicken. I won’t judge you — by most accounts, the Double Down is punishment enough. Judging from the account of the AV Club’s Nathan Rabin, the Double Down is a grievious insult to the body masquerading as a sandwich:
I wanted to quit after a few bites but I soldiered on, ignoring my increasingly intense stomach pain. The Double Down did to my gastrointestinal system what Sherman did to the South, leaving a scorched-earth trail of destruction in its wake. After the initial flavor burst of herbs and spices faded, I was left with a series of stomach-turning pairings, the most horrifying being really bad pepper-jack cheese—school-lunch cheap and school-lunch nasty—and odious bacon.
Whatever sandwich you choose, I hope you’ll join us at Sandwich Party IV!
Sometimes it’s the small, unlikely occurrences that enrich, improve, or brighten your day. Like when:
You have a headache, the very specific kind that only a Coca-Cola will diminish. You think about calling your husband and asking him to swing by the store on the way home from his late shift, but decide not to bother. He walks in at midnight and hands you a bottle of Coke, saying, “Just in case you wanted it.”
You’re eating crackers straight from the box. A rogue cracker slips out of your hand, bounces off the sofa, and falls right back into the box.
You find a hole in your favorite pants, and make a quick trip to the local outlet hoping to replace them. You find the exact same style, color, and size marked down to twelve bucks.
From the Historic American Cookbook Project at Michigan State University Libraries, here’s an excerpt from Aunt Babette’s Cook Book: Foreign and domestic receipts for the household (published c. 1889) instructing the reader how to fashion a bacon bandage as a treatment for sore throat:
Cut the bacon in strips one quarter of an inch in thickness and two or three inches in width and long enough to pass entirely around the throat. Remove the bacon rind and any lean meat there may be in it to prevent blistering of the throat or neck. Sew the bacon to a strip of flannel so as to hold it into position and prevent its slipping and then apply the bacon to the throat and neck. Pin it around the neck, so that it will not be uncomfortably tight. The throat and neck should be completely swathed with the bacon. If after an application of eight hours the patient is not better apply a new bandage in the same manner.
I particularly like “the throat and neck should be completely swathed with bacon.” This seems more like a sound brunch-time policy rather than a health concern, though.
Now is when I confess that in the first week of nablopomo I realized that the blog time settings were incorrect and I left them that way so as not to confuse the situation further. Or something. The two hour difference meant that I managed to post every day, even the one when I came home after midnight. Woot. I’ll fix it tomorrow, but of course it will always be off for Elsa on the other side of the world.
I’ll be spending next week cleaning and packing, getting ready to move into our new abode. The one with no furniture. So excited.