I’m probably the last person in the world to discover this (according to YouTube, I was about the 33rd millionth to discover the honey badger), but holy crap! Starbucks now has a skinny mocha on its menu! A. Skinny. Mocha. I run a foodie site but even I have no idea how they did that one. Wizards, maybe. Actually, I like Russell’s guess better: anorexic cows. Stuck-up, skinny-ass bovine bitches that say “mee” over “moo” and are forever pissed because too much leather is tacky. Oh sure, they’ll land a nice, premium Wagyu bull someday, but that doesn’t stop them from slumming it up with that Black Angus on the Wilson farm just to make their parents’ skin crawl.
How does this segue into today’s recipe? How do any of my anecdotes? Just a little jokey-joke to kick-start your weekend. Have a sandwich.
Italian Ham & Cheese
- 1 clove garlic, minced
- 1 1/2 cups chopped tomatoes
- 1 tbsp fresh basil (3 to 4 leaves), chopped
- 1 tbsp balsamic vinegar
- 1 loaf pain rustique
- 2-3 tbsp pesto
- 6 ounces sliced prosciutto
- 8 ounces fresh mozzarella
- 1-2 cups arugula
Preheat oven to 350˚. Slice the pain rustique loaf in half, lengthwise. Slather with pesto. Toast in oven for 8-10 minutes. Mix chopped tomatoes, garlic, basil, balsamic and salt and pepper. Set aside. Pan fry prosciutto until browned. Slice mozzarella. Build sandwich by spooning chopped tomatoes on one half of bread. Top with arugula. Place prosciutto and mozzarella slices on other half of bread. Put both slices together and press down, hard. Slice into quarters. Dinner, done.
I make this for picnics and it can stand a long car ride and being smushed at the bottom of the picnic basket. I took two of them to our family reunion a few years back and they were gobbled up quickly. Of course, my entire extended family is full of foodies. It’s generational. Like a fine line of cattle. Hopefully, cattle with some meat on their bones. See what I did there? That is what comedians call a callback (redundant as that sounds).
Also, a little disclaimer about Monday’s post. It might be a twinge risque (read: dirty). It’s not my fault; it’s really not this time! So, for those that regard me in any chaste or wholesome context (all four of you), maybe skip it and preserve your misplaced adoration of moi.