Once upon a time, I decided to make you lunch.
So I took a fatty brisket and trimmed it just so.
Then I dunked it in a homemade cure and let it chill for 10 days, before packing it in a peppery rub, smoking it, steaming it and slicing the almost gelatinous pastrami into thick, fragrant hunks of deliciousness.
Ever so carefully, I piled this piping hot gift from heaven on a thick slice of my own freshly baked rye bread, added some homemade mustard and sauerkraut, and then topped it off with another slice of bread, throwing in a side of homemade spicy dill pickles because that's just what you do.
For a minute there, I almost ate it myself. After all, twelve days of perfect pastrami preparation makes you almost mad with hunger. But I remembered that I made it for you, so I didn't eat it. But I wanted to.
Look, maybe you should just come get it before I do something rash.