Yesterday I was down in Pinecrest because I had to help my mom do something with a storage unit. I sat at the Pasion del Cielo in The Falls for a few hours, working on the site, and I forgot my laptop charger here. So, since I had to come all the way down here for the charger today, I decided to hang around, grab the same breakfast I normally get at the other location.

It was a productive morning.

When lunchtime came around I went across the street for a haircut and then, from the Publix next door, grabbed a readymade Cuban sandwich before heading back to Pasion.

The sandwich was weird, though, because it wasn’t made on Cuban bread. You can see it in the photo there and tell me what kind of bread it is (though the name be immaterial). All I know is it’s the wrong kind.

In the interest of self-improvement, the broadening of horizons &c, I got the sandwich and sat in my car and listened to a podcast and ate it and the sandwich wasn’t awful, but it wasn’t correct, which sounds bizarre until, I suppose, you spend your life, and particularly the past year of that life, eating oodles upon oodles of Cuban sandwiches, on Cuban bread, prepared by Cuban cooks in the most Cuban part of town.

I’ll invoke Frankenstein here so’s to pose the question of whether this anarchic substituting of breads is really the sort of experimentation we should be encouraging among the yoots.