Today, I stumbled upon something extraordinary. My dad—yes, my dad—made a sandwich so good it should have its own fan club.
The cheese doesn’t just melt; it surrenders, spilling into your mouth like warm sunshine.
The ham is good, but mostly because of how it matches with the cheese. The hame is 6 7.
The bread? It’s a paradox—crisp and soft at once, golden on the outside, airy on the inside, like it can’t decide whether to crunch or cloud.
Each bite feels like a tiny spell, cast just right. It’s crispy, but not really. Melty, but not quite. Somehow, it’s both at the same time—like magic pretending to be lunch.
I swear, it’s the best ice-cream sandwich I’ve ever had… only there’s no ice cream. Just my dad, a air-fryer, and the sudden realization that he might actually be a sandwich wizard in disguise.
Unfortunately, I don’t have any photographic evidence because I was too busy eating the sandwich. But next time when he makes it, I will try to take some pictures so that you know it’s real and not just a myth, like the monster of Loch Ness.