I wish it was something fancier, but it is not; my favorite food is sandwiches. Weird grammar of that sentence notwithstanding. I don't eat them very often, mostly because serious quantities of bread put me in a coma, but there is quite literally nothing like a well-crafted sub, and I have to occasionally ignore the downsides and eat one.
I read Jonathan Letham's Motherless Brooklyn this week (is this gonna turn into a thing where I always tell you what I'm reading?), a novel whose Tourettic protagonist frequents a local deli to calm his outbursts. The act of eating comforts hims, and in filling his mouth with cold cuts and spicy peppers, he temporarily feels his tics subside.
Dudes, every time this fictional character bought a sandwich (it was a lot of times), I freaked out. I wanted a sandwich SO BADLY. Suddenly, on the train platform or on the couch or wherever I was reading, I found I had a similarly curable anxiety problem, an overwhelming frenzy of desire that could only be quelled by a lot of discordant ingredients brought together on a crusty roll into one beautiful sandwich symphony. WHAT. Who talks about sandwiches like this?! Me. I do. I did. I was fiending.
Right, so then today I made a sandwich.
Nothing fancy. Bread from a local bakery. Ham. Manchego. Grainy mustard. Tomatoes. Fig preserves (trust me). And arugula. Toasted, stacked, gobbled.
And I swear to you, while I was eating it, Earth was entirely at peace.