Why do You Honk at Me?

Dear Mr. (likely Mexican, but I don't want to be racist) man.

It is winter. I am walking down the street in a large puffy jacket and thermal underwear under my jeans. What about me is worth honking at?

At first, I thought you were maybe warning me about an incoming sidewalk plow or a flying squirrel, but when I turned around to look, I only saw your grin, as you honked again. I don't think you were warning me about anything.

Maybe it's my blond hair. It is good to know that, were I to become as fat as I look in winter garb, I will still be honked at by, um, people of certain social circles, provided I don't change my hair color.

Really, it's fine with me if you need to stick your head out of your car's window to look me over. But, I take no responsibility for any resulting traffic accident.

The Closest You'll Get

Not to be misleading- I never intended a blog solely devoted to stuff in between bread- but, I feel that I owe my first real entry to shawarma, aka the stuff dreams are made of.

I first became aware of the existence of shawarma in high school, as my parents, who are falafel people, had neglected to mention to me that things other than chickpeas can also be wrapped in pita. I thus lead a fairly ignorant existence, until my friend Ben returned from a summer in Israel and demanded I taste this so-called shawarma stuff. It's an amazing invention really- spiced, shaved meat, hummus, tomatoes and what have you, rolled up in a soft, warm pita. It's greasy, salty, juicy and full of umaminess, if a Japanese taste can be applied to Middle Eastern food.

I'd like to say that, at that instant, my life was changed. But, alas, for some inexplicable reason, I never thought to consume shawarma on my own, and its palate pleasing deliciousness quickly faded from my sense memory. I often wonder if my recurring bouts of depression during these shawarma-free years were the direct result of its absence in my life... but, I digress.

Recently, I decided it was time to reintroduce myself to this culinary miracle. My boyfriend, TJ, was reluctant.

"I don't want to be eating any small portioned, unfilling, vegetarian, Middle Eastern, finger food shit," he said.

On this particular day, I was too tired and hungry to proselytize, and we bypassed Boston Shawarma for burgers and onion rings at Whiskey's.

Some weeks later, I was visiting him on his turf in Worcester, and suggested shawarma again, this time explaining that it involved meat.

"Okay. Where?" He agreed.

Now, I do not claim to know Worcester well, but I do make it a point to identify Middle Eastern eateries when visiting any foreign city.

"There's a place on Water Street," I told him.

That "place" on Water Street is the Bay State Bakery. I've been buying their pita bread nearly 50 miles east for some time now, and here I was, surrounded by freshly baked loaves.

"Two beef shawarma," I ordered.

It's not exactly fast food. I think we waited nearly ten minutes before we were handed our foil wrapped sandwiches in a slightly greasy brown bag. For less than $9.00 total, we walked out with our lunch. And it was quite a lunch indeed; generous portions of sweetly spiced, shaved beef (there's allspice in there somewhere), dripping, oily hummus, tomatoes, Lebanese pickles and very fresh, warm pita bread. We were in ecstasy. I found no god beneath the aluminum foil, but I had succeeded in converting TJ to shawarmaism. Imagine if Mormons had such an easy time.

An Introduction

This blog is, simply put, about the mundane. Not that I consider sandwiches mundane. Hardly. There may just be that truly exceptional sandwich that propels one into the world of the metaphysical, answering such questions as the meaning of life, whether mankind is moral by nature, and why ketchup plus mayonnaise makes something Russian.

But, until I find such a sandwich, I must remain here in the material plane, and attempt to find the answers myself.