THE LUNCH LADY COOKBOOK’S INCREDIBLE, EDIBLE EGG SALAD SANDWICH.
THE LUNCH LADY COOKBOOK ~ SUMMER EDITION
THE LUNCH LADY INCREDIBLE, EDIBLE EGG SALAD SANDWICH
Hey there boys and girls! This is The Lunch Laddy, Michael Gillan Maxwell, comin’ at ya with another chapter of the Lunch Lady Cookbook. Hard to believe that school’s out for summer already. Kids are jumping off of piers pinching their noses shut, falling out of trees and breaking their wrists, running through sprinklers, skinny dippin’ in the swimming hole, pulling ginormus catfish out of the fishin’ hole, weaving lanyards at summer camp and riding their bikes down shady sidewalks with baseball cards clothes-pinned to their bicycle spokes. I know how summer works. But people still gotta eat and the Lunch Lady Cookbook does not take summer vacations. So get with the program peeples!
Today we tackle one of the most time honored of comfort foods ~ the venerable ~ the one and only ~ Egg Salad Sandwich. How could I be so prosaic, you ask. Well let me tell you this straight up. The Lunch Lady Cookbook don’t know from prosaic. It’s all good. And so, without further adieu, I present:
THE LUNCH LADY INCREDIBLE, EDIBLE EGG SALAD SANDWICH
Ingredients:
Egg Salad:
- 2 Hard Boiled Eggs (Cage Free, organic, jumbo brownies)
- Half cup of finely minced sweet Vidalia onion
- 4 Bread and Butter Pickle Chips ~ chopped and diced
- Salt
- Red Pepper Flakes
- Garlic Powder
- Dried Basil Leaves
- Tablespoon Mayonnaise
Slice, dice, mix and stir. Bend, spindle and mutilate.
Top with basil flakes and red pepper flakes and serve
Sandwich:
- 2 pieces sourdough bread, lightly toasted and buttered
- Cut into 4 pieces, evenly distribute egg salad
- Top with thinly sliced tomato
and there you have it.
By the way, if any of you namby, pamby Momma’s boys need the crusts cut off, then this ain’t the place for you.
Since this involves eggs and mayonnaise, The Lunch Laddy suggests two prophylactic doses of Lipitor before consuming.
Beverage Pairing:
Ice cold Canandaigua Lake Ale.
(I know, it’s only noon, but the sun is over the yardarm somewhere, dammit!)
Music Pairing:
Of course ~ the Alice Cooper classic ~ “School’s Out For Summer”
(It’s summer bitches! And for me ~ school’s out forever.)
Hey, as much as we all love Alice ~
no biting off the heads of live chickens or snakes in the Lunch Lady Cafeteria!
I mean it!
Bon appetit’ !
When Flash Mob 2013 called for entries, I jumped in there just to be part of a mob. Not the kind of mob that involves irate villagers with flaming torches, but the other kind of mob, the good kind of mob. It’s something I’ve not had the opportunity to do since the heady student protest days in the 60’s.
I hoped by rubbing elbows in close quarters with so many fantastic writers their mojo might rub off on me. I thought what the Hell and sent in my quirkiest piece. One of my favorite pieces, freshly rewritten, but had never seen the light of day. I made believe I was a pitcher throwing a screwball, then a football QB heaving a Hail Mary pass. Or not.
Anyway, I was just happy to be in a mob and livin’ it up with all my fellow mobsters! Lightin’ cigars with hundred dollar bills. Struttin’ our stuff & shuckin’ and jivin’ in our zoot suits. You get the picture. Because I was preoccupied with intense summer solstice rituals (it’s Saturday bitches and it’s summer!) and because of the super moon, hugest.full moon.ever. I forgot to even check to see what was going on, and it was not until a friend called to congratulate me that I found out I’d won.
“You won!”
“Huh? What now? Who’s on first?”
“I called to congratulate you.”
Long pause.
“Um….congratulate me …. for ……. not getting arrested …what…what?”
“You won!”
Long period of speechlessness followed by ranting and raving.
It’s not like I’ve never won anything. I’ve won stuff. Lottsa stuff. A bike at a school blacktop carnival. A pie at St. Anthony’s parish festival. A bag of groceries. A two dollar lottery ticket. A karaoke contest in Tokyo. A bonus round on the slots at a casino in Cleveland. An arm wrestling contest. Yeah, I’ve won stuff. Lottsa stuff.
But to be honored in this event …. well, all I can say is
I am humbled, honored and giddy as all git out!
Thank you Flashmob people and all my fellow mobsters!
FLASH MOB 2013 showcases more than 100 stories from more than 100 participating writers from all over the globe.
Click the link below to jump in with the Flash Mob
http://flashmob2013.wordpress.com/winners
Funky Little Blaze Orange Pork Pie Hats
Driving into town daydreaming about the dream I had last night. Not the one about my father, but the one about designing a line of men’s wear made exclusively from potato skins with snappy names like Dudz from Spudz, Potato Pants and Tater Tees. I pass fluttery paper cornstalks, vineyards rusting under sullen skies, pickup trucks clustered at trail heads and men with shotguns creeping toward corn fields.
Walt Whitman’s redneck body double is in the diner, writing on a napkin at the counter. Could be a shopping list, directions to his hunting camp, or a new collection of radiant poems. Seems like I’m the only one in the place not wearing green and beige camo and a funky, little blaze orange pork pie hat. Where are the Fashion Police when you need them?
A man and a teenage girl stand at the counter, their hands are covered with blood.
The girl shows off a photo she just shot with her phone of the buck she just shot with her gun.
Walt Whitman says: “That’s a big deer sweetheart! How old are you anyway?”
“Fifteen, but my dad let’s me drive his pickup.” She leaves to wash her hands.
In the grocery store I spot a man in the produce department squeezing bananas. With his meticulously groomed white goatee and wire rimmed glasses, he’s a dead ringer for Sigmund Freud. I want to tell him about the dream I had last night. Not the one about my father, but the one about Henrietta swimming through a sea of roses.
I want to say: “Doctor, would you mind if I lie down on your couch over here by the tomatoes for just a few minutes? I need to tell you about my mother.”
Hello all,
This is the story I posted June 9th as my entry in Flash Mob 2013 The International Flash Fiction Day Competition.
FLASH MOB 2013 showcases more than 100 stories from more than 100 participating writers from all over the globe.
Click the link below to jump in with the Flash Mob
http://flashmob2013.wordpress.com/
Funky Little Blaze Orange Pork Pie Hats
Driving into town daydreaming about the dream I had last night. Not the one about my father, but the one about designing a line of men’s wear made exclusively from potato skins with snappy names like Dudz from Spudz, Potato Pants and Tater Tees. I pass fluttery paper cornstalks, vineyards rusting under sullen skies, pickup trucks clustered at trail heads and men with shotguns creeping toward corn fields.
Walt Whitman’s redneck body double is in the diner, writing on a napkin at the counter. Could be a shopping list, directions to his hunting camp, or a new collection of radiant poems. Seems like I’m the only one in the place not wearing green and beige camo and a funky, little blaze orange pork pie hat. Where are the Fashion Police when you need them?
A man and a teenage girl stand at the counter, their hands are covered with blood.
The girl shows off a photo she just shot with her phone of the buck she just shot with her gun.
Walt Whitman says: “That’s a big deer sweetheart! How old are you anyway?”
“Fifteen, but my dad let’s me drive his pickup.” She leaves to wash her hands.
In the grocery store I spot a man in the produce department squeezing bananas. With his meticulously groomed white goatee and wire rimmed glasses, he’s a dead ringer for Sigmund Freud. I want to tell him about the dream I had last night. Not the one about my father, but the one about Henrietta swimming through a sea of roses.
I want to say: “Doctor, would you mind if I lie down on your couch over here by the tomatoes for just a few minutes? I need to tell you about my mother.”
Thank you Editor and Publisher Matt Potter for including my piece with so many wonderful writers in this rambunctious exploration of “Personal Space” on Pure Slush!
Michael Gillan Maxwell discovers what it’s like ‘When Nature Calls’, part of ‘personal space’ at Pure Slush, and now online:
http://pureslush.webs.com/authorslm.htm#914784738
Click on the link for “When Nature Calls”
Microtones by Robert Vaughan
Červená Barva Press 2013 Gloria Mindock ~ Editor and Publisher
Robert Vaughan’s 2013 release, Microtones from Červená Barva Press contains two dozen prose poems of varying lengths and a variety of rhythms and structures. From the shortest, just four lines, to the longest, going on two pages; Vaughan’s poems are like songs with a hook that make you want to hear them again. Microtones is like a hand carved box filled with little treasures, a leather album with photographs of people and places you want to know more about, or a double record on vinyl with 24 three minute songs you play over and over.
From the opening piece, The Outlaw, right through to Wrestling With Genetics, the poem that closes the book, the arc and flow keeps the reader moving from one poem to the next. However, you can also pick any poem at random and it shines just as brightly on its own.
Vaughan’s writing is deep and nuanced and evokes both a visual and a visceral response. The poems flow with an ease and grace that is musical and lyrical, in language rich with unexpected images and surprising passages that stop you in your tracks and make you slow down, go back, and read them again.
“You hang mid-air, arms akimbo, glance askance. Resigned. Jubilant.
As we are when any end is imminent.”
Robert Vaughan is a keen and compassionate observer of humanity; his writing, at times, tender, poignant and sad, yet unsentimental and tough when it needs to be. There’s also a healthy dose of irony and humor and a playfulness with language that is unique and refreshing.
“He’s the tetherball attached to my pole, the flying trapeze of my soul.”
You slide into each poem with so much ease, that, before you know it, you’re off and running. Microtones celebrates the predicaments of the human condition and the ephemeral quality of human relationships, and mourns their passing, while at the same time, still holding hope for the future.
Though Microtones is work from a seasoned author, it is also fresh and exciting new work from a writer just really hitting his stride, an artist who speaks to us, in full, with a vibrant voice, and whom we can expect to hear from again.
Microtones is available from Červená Barva Press
http://www.cervenabarvapress.com
Robert Vaughan’s website is http://www.robert-vaughan.com
Driving into town daydreaming about the dream I had last night. Not the one about my father, but the one about designing a line of men’s wear made exclusively from potato skins with snappy names like Dudz from Spudz, Potato Pants and Tater Tees. I pass fluttery paper cornstalks, vineyards rusting under sullen skies, pickup trucks clustered at trail heads and men with shotguns creeping toward corn fields.
Walt Whitman’s redneck body double is in the diner, writing on a napkin at the counter. Could be a shopping list, directions to his hunting camp, or a new collection of radiant poems. Seems like I’m the only one in the place not wearing green and beige camo and a funky, little blaze orange pork pie hat. Where are the Fashion Police when you need them?
A man and a teenage girl stand at the counter, their hands are covered with blood.
The girl shows off a photo she just shot with her phone of the buck she just shot with her gun.
Walt Whitman says: “That’s a big deer sweetheart! How old are you anyway?”
“Fifteen, but my dad let’s me drive his pickup.” She leaves to wash her hands.
In the grocery store I spot a man in the produce department squeezing bananas. With his meticulously groomed white goatee and wire rimmed glasses, he’s a dead ringer for Sigmund Freud. I want to tell him about the dream I had last night. Not the one about my father, but the one about Henrietta swimming through a sea of roses.
I want to say: “Doctor, would you mind if I lie down on your couch over here by the tomatoes for just a few minutes? I need to tell you about my mother.”
Your Own Back Yard - Michael Gillan Maxwell 