Skunked again

I was quite hungry, indeed. I hadn’t eaten since dinner last night, which consisted of two unaccompanied hot dogs. So, about fifteen minutes ago I decided that I would overcome my laziness and general apathy toward actually making something to eat and make a lousy sandwich out of the (still) leftover Christmas ham.

I headed for the bread box and, upon arrival it seemed that the Gods of good sandwich fortune were smiling down upon me because, much to my surprise, there was bread left over from my long winter break. As luck had it, I took the last two slices and went on my way.

Then, I decided that I needed a condiment of some sort. Rather than go through the trouble of pulling a knife out of the drawer and yanking the mayonnaise from the inside door of the refrigerator, I opted for the item in the fridge that necessitated the least work on my part, the often neglected French’s yellow mustard. As I picked it up, though, I knew it was on its last leg, headed to that picnic basket in the dim yellow condiment sky. Though it took a little elbow grease, I was able to successfully coat both slices of my bread, finishing just as the noble little bottle of tangy goodness kicked the bucket. With my head held high, I continued to make the sandwich with the last remnants of Christmastide cuisine.

Now then, I found a couple slices of cheese – the only item excessively bountiful in the Peterson kitchen – and slapped them onto the sandwich. So far, the art of sandwich making was continuing swimmingly. Or so I thought.

I had not taken into account that Christmas was a full 10 days ago. As such, the Honeybaked Ham which sat in the dark recesses of its chilly refrigerated coffin was in the poorest of shape, and had begun to grow crystals of some sort. I was heartbroken.

Still, though, that was the best Swiss cheese and mustard sandwich I’ve ever eaten.

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