The Sandwich

In my family, when you say The Sandwich, you're really only referring to one, specific, sandwich.  And we only make it twice a year. 

Which is probably a good thing, because it's easy to gorge on this one. 

I'm referring, of course, to the post-Thanksgiving turkey-leftover sandwich. 

In my family, the dinner was really just the way to bring together all the elements for The Sandwich.  Sure, the dinner was great.  But the best dinner in the world can't hold a candle to The Sandwich.  Outsiders joke about the sandwich; we don't care.

I remember one year, I was up at my dad's, while he was with wife #2.  She just couldn't get over the fuss we were making.  She had argued for a smaller bird, and my dad and I just stared at her like she'd gone insane.  "Why do you need a 30 pound bird when there's only three of us?" she demanded.  "To have enough for the sandwiches," my dad and I chorused.

That year, the first sandwich was breakfast the following morning  (When I was a teen, it was often a snack a few hours after dinner). 

"How can you EAT that?" She shook her head in disdain.  So we made her one.  She resisted, at first, but finally capitulated, and took a bite.

Her eyes went wide.

"Oh. My. GOD!"  She started cramming the sandwich, praising it between bites.  "My god....this is....I can't believe...."

We had to force her to wait until lunch for the next one.

You see, everyone thinks that our sandwich is just random overkill; it's not. We're not crazy, my family.  We don't shovel things in there for nothing. Each element brings something special to the final assembly, something which makes the sum of the whole much greater than the sum of the parts. 

It's an amazing sandwich.  You can learn how to assemble it here.  You'll be glad you did.