Substitution of sandwiches
I sense a great divide between the advertised and the available. That is, at my local sandwich emporium. Often, my role in an impromptu feast is to sally forth and purchase the denrée. Carefully, after consultation with all involved, a list is prepared. From the website, of course. In the local language, to avoid confusion.
Once inside the “factory”, I take a moment to examine the posted menu, looking for variations on my theme. What then, to do, when there exists little correlation between the desired and the offered? I could leave, and test the competition. Or I could force the family to fast. Or find a third path to satisfaction. How, you ask?
I substitute. Simple. And if questioned when back at the table, I lay all blame with the corporation. Or with their webmaster. Whatever.
This evening, an added difficulty. The “artist”, no doubt in a moment of distraction, pushed the big button on the tiny furnace, twice. Until this evening, a burnt submarine seemed more suited to our armed forces. He (the artist) was perplexed by the situation, and realized that he could not repair the damage at any cost, unlike our armed forces. A full sandwich, deep sixed in the garbage. Submarine style.
Moving along, I took delivery of my order and returned from whence I had come. Supper waits for none. My only regret was that I wasn’t offered an occasion to purchase the damaged goods. After all, the dog is less choosy about such things. Or so I have been led to believe.
