In the pre-ramble of a meeting today, we were discussing our weekend plans, as is sacred Friday tradition of all corporate-clocked persons in the few minutes before the host logs on. This somehow led us to dinner plans (I believe someone is barbecuing tomorrow, which led to a complaint of hunger, the train was unclear and actually unimportant). When it was clearly my turn to engage I excitedly mentioned that I’d prepared all the accoutrements for a BLT sandwich. I was very much looking forward to it. All agreed that this was indeed something to look forward to. Especially on a busy day! A busy Friday no less! Excellent choice.

And then I made the most heinous mistake I have ever made in my adult life. A mild lull took over and the host still absent I posed- “Do you all put mustard on your BLT?”

I know, I know. I started a war and smiled while doing so. I promise I’m not malicious, just ignorant. The truth is, while daydreaming about the BLT in a previous meeting in which I was somehow necessary but spoke no words and had no opinions, I was wondering if I had mayonaise in the fridge. I couldn’t recall it sitting there among the condiment shelf (in the door, where condiments go. I may be ignorant but I’m not a fool). I thought perhaps it was hiding behind the large bottle of lemon juice but that would be the ingredients-related-condiments shelf rather than the true-condinments shelf so chances were I was actually out of mayo. So what could I do for my BLT? I was not going to put it off, risk my perfect heirloom tomoato wilting as I had already sliced it. A BLT tomorrow would be fine but a BLT tonight would be perfect. So I’d been considering the substitution of mustard.

“Well then it’s not a BLT!” rose the voices! “You can’t put mustard on a BLT.” “Ew.” “That’s like putting cheese on it.” “Oh you can’t put cheese on it.” “Cheese can go on anything!” “Not a BLT.” “Well true.” “Not mustard. It’s gotta be mayo.” “Duke mayo.” “Don’t start that again, Jeff*.” “You can put an egg on it.” “You can put an egg on it, yes.”

And as my bewilderment grew- the host arrived, apologizing for being late as it was such busy day, a busy Friday no less! And now let’s get started talking about _______.

But I could not focus. I knew there were rules about food:** Watermelon and sandwiches taste better in triangles, grilled cheese must have at least one orange cheese, you must choose between waffles and pancakes never both, you can’t make a soda suicide after age 10, gravy and sauce are not the same thing, buffalo wings are sidekicked by celery, don’t serve guests salad unless you have ranch in the house. The basics.

But the BLT… was it not devoid of such regulations? Surely its time in reckless deviation had freed it from any law or guideline! But then again- did some fame not bring staying principles of its own?

It is such a famous sandwich that one can word-play (letter-play?) on a menu and the base is instantly recognizable. If I say to you this diner has a BLAT, you know that’s a BLT with an A-food, are one synapsis away from knowing it’s added avocado. The BELT (bacon egg lettuce tomato) is the safe man’s choice on any brunch menu the country over. Those born beneath the Mason Dixon line know that a Southern BLT is when the tomato is both green and fried.*** And of course every red-blooded American knows about The Elvis. The BBPB (bacon, banana, peanut butter, and butter) is not a true BLT but is enough of a direct relative that it must be mentioned in BLT discourse.

The variation does not end there! Pluck any letter from the alphabet into BLT and a menu-reader feels safe and understood: This is a Bacon Lettuce Tomato… WITH. I can say BOLT, BCLT, BJLT and you can easily guess what’s been added (olive, chicken, jalapeños, respectively, though you may be forgiven for thinking jam since I mentioned The Elvis).

Obviously there are the 2 inarguable cardinal rules: 1. The B always goes first 2. There must be bacon and lettuce and tomato. But where is the mayo mentioned?! Or even the bread (which must be toasted)?! Are these IMPLIED by “Sandwich” at the end of the title? What happens when it is called simply “BLT”? Is this why Grilled Cheese is simply Grilled Cheese and not Grilled Cheese Sandwich- for then there would be mayo? And if not then how does the Grilled Cheese acquire its bread? Is the bread not what makes something a sandwich?!****

If we accept the premise that it is the bread is indeed implied across the board in this manner then we must accept that the mayo is not or else Grilled Cheese would be gross. And if the mayo is not implied, then it can be mustard… can’t it?

So troubled was I in my silent hell that I agreed to take an Action Item from the meeting without the traditional “I’ll start that next week” comment that must follow when accepting any task on a Friday. A busy Friday, no less.

When I logged off and changed into my pajamas, settling the cat down with me for too many episodes of the West Wing, would I truly be doing so with a BLT? Or would I, in my desperate need for mild moister, have a simply unexciting bacon sandwich?

The mayo jar had fallen and was found among the assorted seltzers. I was free, and this is someone else’s problem.

*Jeff’s name has been changed for his safety. I do agree that Duke’s Mayo is the True Mayo but I cannot let my west-coast Hellman/Kewpie loving coworkers know this, as I am still suffering scars from the great Cheerwine Debate.

**The award for largest breaker of the most rules of food was long held by Cheesecake Factory. Their throne has been stolen by TikTok as an entity.

***Note this is on regular occasions/food places. If you are at any state fair, the sandwich has indeed been fried as a whole and you will never know what color the tomato was.

****Don’t. Don’t do it. Don’t argue with me about tacos and hotdogs and wraps. This is a sandwich discussion and I won’t have it.

If you got this far, the title BLTP is for Bacon Lettuce Tomato Ponderings.

I relate to the heron green; That ethereal swampy queen

We of only two found forms; To deal with life’s many norms

Tall and prepared to strike; Bright eyes, peak of our psych,

Or just a sphere trying to be; Quiet and simple and free

There is nothing for us in the gray; Between the twirb and borb of our day

The book is always better

The viewings leave such to be desired

Nothing is taken down to the letter

And I want the director fired

Why can’t he take the light

That burned so brightly in me

that kept me woke throughout the night

And shine it out for all to see?

He’s pilfered and he’s filtered

To condense into the time

And I am left bewildered

At the audacity of his crime!

The faces wrong, the words atrocious!

A subplot gone, my rage ferocious!

A forced romance, there goes the sequel

(It can’t advance without its equal).

I sit here mad, in my uneasy chair

I’ve been had, and it isn’t fair

For I will watch this film again.

The story botched, but still a win.

….a poem inspired by Netflix’s recent movies on books I have absolutely adored. I ate “The Guernsey Lliterary and Potato Peel Pie Society” like a famished reader. It was so well done and I fell in love with each character, and how the author made all of it so real. And I don’t mean in the way some excellent fantasy authors make you seriously consider magic, but as if I was truly peering into these people’s lives. I felt a different, but equal, kind of joy from reading the series of “The Thursday Murder Club” books. Less real people, but just fun to read in the same way beach books are, but a little more cerebral. Then I watched their Netflix counterparts. Look, I knew going in. I’m one of the “DID YOU PUT YOUR NAME IN THE GOBLET OF FIRE?!” complainers. And on top of that, it was, ya know, Netflix. So when characters got mushed together and subplots traded in for cameos, I only groaned minimally. And really, I shouldn’t groan at all. Because “Guernsey” is now one of my treasured volumes. It’s one I will tell others they HAVE to read, but refuse to lend my own copy out (we all have a few of those, don’t we?). But- and here’s the turn- I wouldn’t have even looked it up if Netflix hadn’t suggested the movie to me. It came up on my “for you” list and I thought “well that sounds more like the title of a book… an interesting book.” So I went on my search, found it, and the rest is me curled up in a ball well into the night in my plant nook. So can I complain? In this time of growing illiteracy (both basic and media and artistic, really all senses) shouldn’t we be celebrating anything that can lead people to story? Or should we be arguing that instead- these things should be done perfectly right? I’m really asking. I’ve argued myself in both directions. I suppose tonight my stance is, this book led me to rhyme for the first time in weeks, and I am grateful for any way it came to me.

What is your top “The Book Was Better”?

With too many conspiracies being proven true lately (and mostly the sad, bad ones) I think we all deserve a new fun one. As a treat.

Especially since so many of the entertaining ones have been stolen from us, like good ol’ Nessy (who at best was a monk’s fever dream after too much scribing with dubious-plant-based inks, and at worst was a money grab, and realistically, probs both).

So I give you: There is no Eye in Evolve. (Get it? No I, no eye? Hee hee)

It starts with a great base: Jellyfish are trying to take over the world. Why? Easy- they’ve managed to float basically unchanged through all of history, ever, no matter if oceans freeze (they don’t even go dormant really. They just kind… stop… until they melt) or meteors take out half the population- big deal! They’re good! Just wait for the random midnight that happens under certain moons to repopulate under conditions even horoscope girlies think is a bit much.

Until us- humans are starting to change the ocean in ways that jellies are having to actually adjust to. Ugh. They are having to evolve for the first time… like ever. Well, more like the 3rd time, but that’s about 45000 fewer times than the next least-evolving species. They’re shifting the genus around to deal with acidification and temperature change and food scarcity. This is too much for the jellyfish. If they’re gonna have to make an actual effort- damn it- it’s gonna be a big one.

Yet hate is a strong feeling for a brainless floating blob. They’re not taking over the world to kill us all- no no! That would really trash up the waterways. They just think they, we, the planet, would be better off jelly. Jelly is great. We should all be jelly.

The process? Gotta take those weird mammalian things that crawled out of the waters back to a more suitable standard. The first move? Get rid of the eye. Don’t need that. Jelly got rhopalia, does the trick. Rhopalia are VERY light sensitive. Obviously, infiltrate leading technology (easy- have you ever seen an AI bot and a jellyfish in the same room? No. How about an IT expert and a jellyfish? No one has. Ever. Cause they’re the same). Blow up the lights. Lamps? Huge bulbs, never go out. Make them literally buzz with annoying power. Phones? Big huge screens that each update get subtly brighter. Make bigger phones more socially cool. Cars? Turn those beams UP. No human should be able to see when driving. Give up the eyeball or crash trying.

It might… it might also be moths in charge. Never mind I’ll worry about that later.

This is why you’re addicted to your phone. It’s not marketing schemes, it’s not the government taking your data. It’s the jellies.

And oh, what’s that? You can’t see now that your ridiculously over evolved orbs are reconstituted to a nice little sensory nerve? I guess you’ll be doing a lot of grasping around in the dark. If only you had more arms… many of them… maybe it would be easier to not move so much. To just… float along? BOOM. Everything is jelly.

I mean this conspiracy has EVERYTHING! A not-so-innocent-afterall main character, government infiltration, a long-con. I think it’s gonna go places. Mostly wet places. As all places should be. Dark and wet and filled with yummy zooplankton…

…what?

Jellyfish. There’s no Eye in Evolve.

You scream. I scream. We all scream. Because you’re in my house and neither of us wants that. Oh tiny creature of the night They say you are fear But I see fear in your tiny eyes, your shivering wing. Trust me. I shiver as well when the world is too big, too bright. Now get in the tupperware so I may release you into the dark.

I rise Just to fall again Slam again Betray my friend Who is just there On the end Doing their little best.

Why are you not like the rest? Why do you keeping passing or, is it failing, This test? When it’s clear you’re not wanted Not needed Not heeded.

You’re not meant to roam You’re meant to head home Bruised and battered As you are

…a slam poem for my broken pinky toe that I slammed again this morning.