Years ago a friend of mine asked whether I would rather have True Love or the Perfect Sandwich. It was a very tough question to answer in my teens and still a tough question to answer in my late 20s. I LOVE good food, and especially a good sandwich.
Frankly, I’d hope that True Love is the path to the Perfect Sandwich.
This man has told this woman that she was 300 sandwiches away from an engagement ring, since then she’s committed herself to the goal and made 176.
Each morning, he would ask, “Honey, how long you have been awake?”
“About 15 minutes,” I’d reply.
“You’ve been up for 15 minutes and you haven’t made me a sandwich?”
To him, sandwiches are like kisses or hugs. Or sex. “Sandwiches are love,” he says. “Especially when you make them. You can’t get a sandwich with love from the deli.”
“You’ve been up for 15minutes and you haven’t made me a sandwich?”
That’s a great wake-up line if I’ve ever heard one. Some DHV with some motivation to action.
Ten sandwiches or so in, I did the math. Three sandwiches a week, times four weeks a month, times 12 months a year, meant I wouldn’t be done until I was deep into my 30s. How would I finish 300 sandwiches in time for us to get engaged, married and have babies before I exited my childbearing years?
My mother was the voice of reason. “Relationships are a marathon, not a sprint,” she said. “Take it one sandwich at a time.”
She definitely took this man’s declaration seriously, to the point of motherly advice, and decided to work towards her goal. Hopefully, he stands by the number of sandwiches required, because he knows he is worth it.
I made sandwiches for breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert. I made sandwiches to get myself out of the doghouse — like No. 67, a scrambled egg, smoked salmon and chive creation that combined some of Eric’s favorite things to make up for my being 45 minutes late for dinner the night before.
Even after covering movie premieres or concerts for Page Six, I found myself stumbling into the kitchen to make Eric a sandwich while I still had on my high heels and party dress.
Which would you rather have after a night out: A late night snack at a Diner or your woman in heels in the kitchen fixing you a delightful breaded wonder?
A man would much rather give the woman in party dress and heels his meaty reward for a well-made sandwich than the greazy, short-order cook from Mo’s Burgers and Shakes.
Nothing has changed. If you want to stick a man with Cupid’s arrow, make sure you aim for his stomach.