My boyfriend reminded me last night, “You can’t live off of toast.” But also… can’t you?

From Hilary Fitzgerald Campbell


cynically, unquestionably, true

With thanks to Mike at ComicsDC.

Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart talk sandwiches

“Stephen, have you had a sandwich?”

Yet again, my Main-Sandwich-Man-in-New-York hooks me up.


TFW you know there are more sandwiches than time.

Tim Carman knows sandwiches. Word. The man eats and eats and eats, drives and drives and eats some more so that the rest of us can eat more targetly. Still and all, his curated list – twenty-five sandwiches – is a whole lotta sandwiches. If a person were to dot the DC metro area map with Mr. Carman’s favorite sandwich joints, then connect the dots via drivable roadways, the route progresses in the shape of a hoagie. Twenty-five dots, twenty-five rendez vous with duo-bread destiny.

Let’s talk about the tomato sandwich

Classic Southern Tomato Sandwich photographed for Voraciously/the Washington Post by Scott Suchman. Food styling by Lisa Cherkasky

I am a tomato sandwich interloper. While that might automatically make me a rabid fan, I hide my late-to-the-game status with nonchalance. Of courrrse, it must be white bread. “I prefer Sunbeam.” See, no hard line for me. Prefer is the word. Just prefer, not a requirement. Duke’s mayo, too. Goes without saying for those to-the-tomato-sandwich-manor born. Shhh, do not shout Duke’s from the rooftop, lest you betray your newbieishness.

The tomato sandwich is an older food, but not that old since it is reliant on white bread, the kind that yields maximum puff from minimum wheat, landing it in early mid-century America. Right? Probably wrong. The Virginia Chronicle references it in 1911, although the bread must have been meatier and yeastier and all that good stuff. Yup, lots of people – anecdotal research here – prefer “good” bread and I can’t blame em. That tomato sandwich is a whole different animal. Worthy. Delicious. Different.

Life. Sandwiched Between Birth and Death.

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Between adulthood and your finish.

We like lists. I like lists. Lists are arbitrary. Lists are artificial.

We like life. I like life. Life is arbitrary. Life is…so real it is artificial.

Checking off items on a list and noting the dopamine rush – accumulate accumulate accumulate yes! – is my jam jam jam marmalade.

Speaking/writing of marmalade I will never get to France and eat these sandwiches and checkcheckcheck them off a listlistlist. I am familiar with most of them. Does familiarity satisfy?

All so delicious. It is food after all, that weird stuff we put in our mouths to masticate, taste, eat, swallow, digest. Weird, wonderful, sensual, sustaining. Ah. Gah. Yes. Do you want to live forever? No, you do not. Nevertheless, life’s glories are limitless, unmeasurable, vibrating.

Not rushing off to France to eat, yet noting the range of my desire. Feeling more alive for it. Sandwich my desire between buttered bread please. Then take a luscious bite, chewchewchew noting the barbarianism, … of it and STRETCH OUT WITH ALIVENESS.

Merci, Monsieur Spaulding!


Pile On the Birthday Wishes

April 16th, 1936. The birth of the Dagwood!

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Dagwood Bumstead, sandwich connoisseur. Just take a close look – sardines, sausages, chunk of cheese. Nothing individually wrapped, nothing pre-sliced. Dagwood, you’re my guy.

Colossally glorious creations.

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Happy birthday to ya and many happy returns! 

A Mild Variant

My Good-Pal-Susan went to Amsterdam and brought me a tube of mustard. And a big chunk o’ gouda. Thank you, terrific friend, neighbor and hard-core mom-squad mate.

Screen Shot 2019-03-07 at 7.38.18 AMA mild variant is the mom I would like to be. Am I? No. As the snake oil of a face cream salesman in Nassau chirped, “Ooh, spicy.” He was not laying a compliment on me. Have I done my son a giant disservice by reinforcing reactivity? Yes indeed I have. His gap year(s) could be seen as an opportunity to create a gap between then and now. A chance to dial it all back, become a milder variant of myself and hope for a little less friction and push back. Only time will tell, as it does always, the slow reveal that is child rearing.


Photo by Mark Snead. I fried the pork belly and squeezed the mustard.

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My world has been widened by the Marne addition to the fridge door. The aluminum tube is, as claimed, handy.  And our world? The bigger, the better. The smaller we are in it, the better, too. An assist in parental perspective. We are mere specks in a giant universe. Mustard seeds perhaps, if we grow slowly and soundly.



You Have a Friend in Cheeses

Voraciously sub food brand 01 2019

Photo by Stacy Zarin Goldberg. Art direction by Jennifer Beeson Gregory. Hole styling by moi.

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“On earth I was a manufacturer of Imported Holes for American Swiss Cheese,” the braided man tells Dorothy, in her fourth adventure in Oz. “I will acknowledge that I supplied a superior article.”  Read on.

Look up the nose holes of the hoitiest toitiest food mag to date, Cook’s Illustrated, and be shamed for Reubens past:

“A pockmarked wedge of Swiss may be instantly recognizable as the icon of “cheese,” but it’s rarely celebrated for its flavor. Often rubbery and bland, most Swiss—stateside, at least—may be fine as a gooey layer in a Reuben but would never star on a cheese plate. In fact, there was only one sample that we enjoyed eating out of hand the last time we tasted Swiss cheese, in 2005.That genuine Emmentaler from Switzerland (Emmentaler is the real name for the cheese Americans call Swiss) boasted a nuanced, sweet hazelnut flavor.” Read on.

Swiss cheese is not bland. That is my claim because my child would not eat it when he was small. Due to his resistance, I tasted Swiss anew, taste buds and brain fresh, and found it odd and oddly pungent. But not in a good way. Had to give it to him – highly passable, as in, I’ll take a pass.

Emmentaler, eminently, is the goo and the glue of our fondue. Soon too, sandwichitaler.

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Mustard Plaster

Voraciously sub food brand 01 2019

Mustard photos by Stacy Zarin Goldberg. Art direction by Jennifer Beeson Gregory. Styling my moi.

Plastering is an art, I am told, and I believe it. Plasterers are rare and their artworks are diminishing. Such a shame.

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Mustard is alive and well and has become an art as well. Did you know that we are breeding sommeliers of mustard?

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Yes, everything. Read about it here. When a school for braunschweigiers opens, I’m in.