It seems lately that every dish I make turns out to be some kind of metaphor. The latest? A series of sandwiches.
The sandwich I love most in the world is the goat cheese sandwich with celery, walnut pesto, avocado, and watercress on multigrain at 'wichcraft. Last week I decided to get clever and go buy the ingredients for the sandwich instead of the sandwich, thereby making use of my 'wichcraft cookbook and maybe saving a little money, figuring that I could make several sandwiches from one log of goat cheese, one avocado, one loaf of multigrain, etc. And I did. Kind of.
But I picked the wrong bread.
So I made goat cheese sandwiches on it -- not as good as those made by the professionals, but good enough to scratch the itch -- and then, a leftover-using-up sandwich involving some shrimp and sambal.
The contents of the sandwiches were good. But as sandwiches, they were always failures, because the bread was too thin to hold them together. Behold the shrimp sandwich!
Looks good, right? Fell apart and dropped things all over the plate from the get-go.
Naturally, with writing on the brain, I decided the sandwich was a metaphor. It doesn't matter how good your writing is if you pick the wrong story to write. Yes, this is on my brain because I'm starting a new manuscript this month, but I don't think it's too much of a stretch. You can do everything right except for one thing, and if that one thing is a central enough thing (like the bread in a sandwich) it will scotch the whole affair.
Food for thought, as they say.
(I'll definitely make the shrimp sandwich again -- I used little wild-caught Maine shrimp from the freezer, which I cooked just until done and tossed with sambal oelek and lemon juice. That's all. Against the creaminess of a little goat cheese, that part at least was perfect.)