I won’t go all Swedish on you so will spare you description of the open sandwich. OH MY GOD. The open sandwich. Fond memories.
Let’s regroup: I do live in England. And in England sandwiches come enclosed. I have promised myself not to succumb to a very cheap observation, namely, that the longest running piece of theatre in London was not “The Mousetrap” but “No Sex please, we are British”. My then boyfriend – who later became FOS father-of-son and thus defied the latter title despite his parents best efforts to keep us in separate rooms when we were already in our Twenties and engaged – took me to both plays well before he proposed to me. It’s forward thinking. Particularly for an Englishman. If your soon to be and foreign bride does laugh at both those plays there might be a chance that she’ll make great cucumber sandwiches in many years to come.
And I do. Make great cucumber sandwiches. In the privacy of my own company – see above – I will eat them OPEN but when called upon by the likes of Glyndebourne I will close my case and shut it too.
Talking of cucumbers, and it is my one and most disgusting failing as the devoted parent I am: The only time I tried (emphasis on try) to force food on Apple of my Eye was cucumber. I do not know what came over me. Other than that I love cucumber. And since I love my son too the two seemed like a match made in sandwich heaven. Not so. Never ever have I regretted a deed of mine more than trying (emphasis on ‘trying’) to make someone do something they don’t want to do. My son is his mother’s child. So what possessed me I do not know. Anyway. He didn’t eat it. And some 17 years later cucumber still is a no no in this house. I only eat it when he is out and not to be expected back any time soon (he can sniff the whiff of cucumber half an hour later). If I were on crack it couldn’t be worse.