In 2016, a diner named a sandwich after me. "The Dutch" was a bit of a colon-killer, a rib-eye steak slathered in provolone cheese, onions, and mushrooms on a kaiser roll. With an egg on top. I didn't design the sandwich, and truth be told, I rarely ever ate it, as it usually made a mid-day nap unavoidable. I'm bringing it up because I consider "The Dutch" to be a high-water mark in a career focused on reaching people with my writing.​​​ 

 

For many years, I was the managing editor of The Ambler Gazette, a newspaper founded in the late 19th century. During my tenure with the paper, I'd frequently hold office hours in a local diner called Conshohocken Cafe, where I'd write, edit, and conduct interviews. Rather than consider me a loiterer or nuisance, the restaurant's owner and employees all embraced me as one of their own. Eventually, they honored me with a sandwich.

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And while "The Dutch" was retired from the menu back when the Conshohocken Cafe sold to new owners, the proof remains framed in my office. 

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In my heart, I'll always be a sandwich.