I don’t even know where a sandwich lives. Cooking, eating, and drinking have become quite an endeavor recently. Beer has somehow become a craft, and like crocheting can be quite complicated. The are millions to choose from (at least) and they are catogrized with fancy initials, and grain choices, and countries they come from, or at least that’s what you are led to believe. I know some of these craftsmen and they are the same dudes that used to be banging on cheap guitars in garages and basements, but have created an industry that seems to be working. Winemakers can’t have all the fun. But much like the snobbishness of winos (take out the alchohol and would anyone really be drinking that juice??), beer aficionados know their stuff. And that’s probably what really gnaws at me. I know everything. EVERYTHING. Truly brilliant. But I have been publically ridiculed for ordering something generically lite, or natural, or cheap. (Yes that was overly dramatic but I like to ridicule others since I am an expert on everything. EVERYTHING). But much like cooking I just don’t care that much. If my kitchen were filled with vending machines I’d be good with that. I don’t want to talk about it. I was in a bar of all places where two men were trying to one up each other on how they smoke tenderloin. Yes the kind that comes from an animal. They had dualing rubs, and temperatures, and times, and spices, and all kinds of heated debate about whose was bigger and better. Yes still talking tenderloin here. My tongue was bloody from biting it so hard because there were way too many good jokes going to waste. But once men got into the cooking thing it got ‘craft’ status and full on competition. Women cook to feed people, men cook as an art form. Simplistic, of course, but there is a whole channel devoted to food and cooking and someone’s watching it. I’ve never seen it because it would make me hungry and I’d have to go searching for quarters to get my lunch. Now craft vending machines hmmmm??