Early on in my 2nd pregnancy, I rang my husband one afternoon. When you go to creche to get Dominic, says I, can you pop into the electrical shop nearby and get us a toasted sandwich maker. Not a George Foreman, nothing fancy, a good old 80’s style toasted sandwich maker. He laughed disbelievingly, pointing out our small kitchen and would it not just gather dust in the cupboard. My rebuttal I’m sure contained the well known fact that I was carrying his child and if I required a toasted sandwich maker be procured in the next 2 hours, then goddammit, one had better appear.
On the way home from work that evening, I bought a white sliced pan, a rare treat in our house. We proceeded to have dinwiches. It’s dinner! It’s sandwiches! It’s dinwiches! How much was it anyhow says I, munching my way through my second round of sticky melted cheddar encased in golden Dairygold-covered toasty goodness. €13.99 says he. I spluttered, sure it’s paid for itself you wouldn’t get us 4 rounds of toasties in the pub for that. He agreed if it were to retire to a lonely spot in a cupboard that very evening forever more it would not have cost us anything. But it hasn’t dear reader, oh it hasn’t.
For a while it remained an adult indulgence, cheese and ham for hubby, cheese and molten hot tomato for me. Since Dominic has come on board with the whole notion of sandwiches, we have now introduced him to the world of delight that is the toasted sambo. He’ll have to wait 15.5 years to see how amazing they are with a pint of stout though…