Not so long ago, when I got it in my head to make beef and cheddar melts, I ended up throwing together a special sandwich sauce with which to adorn it. The filet mignon dinner from a few nights ago was a two-steak sous vide, with the spare one set aside with an eye to another round of those melts to follow. Early in the week, I went ahead and whipped up that sauce. When I realized I had some lettuce to use up, and with the accumulation of ripe and ready cherry tomatoes, that sauce was well-suited to a beef-topped salad, the main meal last Tuesday.
For those in a certain age range, perhaps that Big Mac jingle and the mastery of its fully descriptive ingredients list remains a treasured accomplishment of days gone by. The triumph for most of us accrued a tempering element—and some might even remember where they were when they learned this incongruous detail—when we put it together that the “special sauce” was more or less Thousand Island dressing. Oh, the wounding sting of the death of innocence!
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