Bitz 'N' Blogs with CJ Cross

Sure, when someone says “sandwich” you probably think PB&J, Vegemite, jam, maybe a token salad sandwich to prove you’ve seen a vegetable this decade. But recently I’ve been haunted—yes, haunted—by memories of the weird little snack sandwiches I used to eat as a kid. This blog dives into two of those deliciously questionable creations.

Sandwich 1: Microwaved Honey and Butter Sandwiches

Two innocent slices of white bread, slathered within an inch of their lives in butter and honey, mashed into a crime-scene pancake and nuked in the microwave for 10–15 seconds—a lukewarm, sticky abomination that probably violated several culinary laws…my family were confused by it at the time.. and as an adult.. so am I.

Sandwich 2: The Mighty Maggi 2-Minute Noodle Sandwich

Picture this: two sad slices of white bread, the cheapest in the aisle, nobly volunteering as stunt doubles in a low-budget food crime. You then fill them—no, you *jam-pack* them—with freshly cooked (or, let’s be honest, suspiciously undercooked) 2‑minute Maggi noodles. It’s carb-on-carb violence. A starchy middle finger to everything your doctor, the food pyramid, and probably your ancestors ever believed in. The noodles immediately try to escape, oozing out the sides like they’re fleeing a hostage situation, while the bread disintegrates on contact like wet printer paper. But it doesn’t matter, because the MSG glory is divine. That seasoning packet? Deployed with the precision and restraint of a toddler with glitter. Salt isn’t a suggestion here; it’s a core personality trait. And then, the final insult to cuisine: daring to call this fever dream a *“sandwich.”* As if slapping two slices of bread around a pile of rogue noodles magically transforms chaos into cuisine. But you know what? It does. It absolutely, unapologetically does.

The Bottom Line

Here’s the beautiful, unhinged truth about sandwiches: they are the ultimate **democratic** food. A sandwich does not care about your résumé, your tax bracket, or whether what you’re shoving between those slices makes any culinary sense whatsoever. Cake? Obviously. Noodles? Toss ’em in. Butter and honey microwaved into a bubbling sugar crime scene? Go forth and prosper, you magnificent chaos goblin.

There’s a legendary tale of a man so devoted to the sandwich format he’d eat literally anything—and I mean *anything*—as long as it could be bullied into sandwich form. Vegetables? Sandwich. Last night’s questionable leftovers? Sandwich. That cake you swore you wouldn’t touch until the weekend? Cut it in half, slap it between two carb pillows, and boom: lunch. This man understood a sacred truth of the universe: the sandwich isn’t just a meal. It’s a belief system. It’s raw, unfiltered freedom. It’s you, two slices of bread, and the unearned confidence that whatever you’re about to do is definitely not a mistake.

So riddle me this: What were *your* weird, wonderful, probably-regrettable childhood sandwiches? What culinary felonies did you commit between two slices of bread? I desperately want to hear about your sandwich sins—the weirder, the better. Lay it on me: the sticky, the soggy, the structurally unsound. After all, we’re all just out here trying to make sense of existence, one deeply questionable sandwich at a time.

Honourable Mention: The Bird Poo Sandwich

I was in the middle of bragging about my childhood sandwich crimes when my friend casually hit me with a culinary war crime of his own: the infamous “Bird Poo Sandwich.” Picture this: two slices of buttered bread, absolutely smothered in cream cheese, then aggressively peppered with raisins. The name? 100% based on vibes and terrible optics. Dark little raisin nuggets splattered across a field of white cream cheese look exactly like… yep, fresh bird droppings. His mum, an unhinged food innovator who clearly never workshopped this with a focus group, somehow managed to invent a snack that was both horrifying *in theory* and apparently delicious *in practice*. She created a banger of a sandwich and then slapped it with the least appetizing name in the history of lunch. I’ve never actually put one in my mouth—because, again, it’s called the Bird Poo Sandwich—but I am reliably informed it was a “hella good sanga.” So here’s to his mum: a visionary chaos chef who perfected the rare art of making something everyone wants to eat, while making everyone who hears about it go, “I’m sorry, the what now?” Truly, she walked so our cursed modern food trends could run.