Meet the Sand-Witches: Westmont’s radical sandwich subculture

Meet+the+Sand-Witches.

Ella Jennings

Meet the Sand-Witches.

Keegan Perez, Staff Writer

Okay, it might bum you out, but picture this: Monday morning. 

You woke up at 7:00, then 7:09, then 7:18, then got out of bed at 7:50. You rushed to be on time to your 8 a.m. and your 9:15. You dragged yourself to Chapel and God carried you to your 11:30. To top it off, because you ran out of fig bars, you did it all on an empty stomach. You ask yourself: other than more Chapel skips, what could possibly remedy the grind and gridlock of Monday mornings?

If you’re anything like me, you need a trip to the DC to fill that fig-bar-shaped hole in your tummy. Sadly, there is no such thing as Taco Monday and the “Your Plate” line is too long. Simple Servings looks too healthy, but you should probably lay off the pizza if you want to live for much longer. 

It’s time for a sandwich.

Surely, many an ode has been written to lunchtime DC sandwiches. The heavenly ingredients are like oils on a painter’s palette, calling you to experiment, create and boldly live.

Cheeses of different shapes and colors, lanes of cold cuts like the pink swashes of sunrise, uncharted vegetables and enough jalepeños to kill a bear. Perhaps you devise a plan in your head, dutifully preparing a checklist of ingredients. Perhaps you grab your favorite bread and dry fire, painting purely by feel, stacking slice after marvelous slice until your tower is constructed. 

The DC’s otherworldly peanut butter and jelly deserves a separate article, but sandwich toppings are really only half the story. The DC has also installed a conveyor-belt toaster and two panini presses — although, an anonymous informant intimated that Emersenator Mitchell Wybenga ambitiously intends to install five more panini presses and rededicate the DC as “The Panini Palace.” I say, lead on, Senator! In the meantime, as male lions compete fiercely for a mate, we must still compete for the panini presses.

Which leads me to the greatest gift these steadfast sandwiches have to offer: a vibrant subculture of Westmont Sand-Witches, who make sandwich-magic happen here in coastal California. Yes, we happy few, we culinary creators, are bound to each other daily in our crumb-lined corner of the DC. 

Sandwich corner conversations are unique, and tend to be topical: “Oh, you were feeling the roast beef today? A little roast beef action?” or “Can my sandwich cuddle up with yours on the panini press?” or “Shoot, are you going to cut that thing all diagonal? Pretty brave, pretty brave.” These reflections might seem superficial, but to us, they are the heralds of creative affirmation. There’s no better way to say “I love you” than “Wow, you really like red onions.”

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