Return of the native

Back from Jersey safe and sound. The trip was equal parts relaxation and catharsis - some of it expected, some of it a bit of a surprise (I'd elaborate, but it's all a little too personal for public consumption, sorry) - but overall it was exactly what the doctor ordered. And it's a good thing, too, because the syllabus is now up for my Historical Methods and Research class I'll be taking this fall and man o man, it's looking like a doozy. Some weeks we'll be expected to read as many as two entire books cover to cover! I guess I know what I'll be doing on those long and lonely weekend shifts here at the Circ Desk, but then again that was one of the reasons I took this job in the first place. Fourteen hours of captive time a week should keep me from experiencing too many sleepless nights, at least until the final papers and projects are due...

I'll share one thing from my vacation - a culinary delight I discovered when visiting my brother in his new house. The town in which he now resides (Pitman) has a great hoagie shop called Pal Joey's whose sandwiches are easily the equal of anything you'd find in Philadelphia proper; although I was craving a classic Italian hoagie done right after a lackluster pretender I had eaten earlier during the week, despite my better judgement, when I was looking over Pal Joey's menu I was intrigued by a sandwich they called "The Nellie": thin-sliced roast pork, imported sharp provolone cheese, and roasted sweet peppers on a seeded crusty roll. It's two days later and I'm still thinking about eating it, an experience I now put on the same plane as my first cup of she-crab soup at the See Wee Restaurant, my first fried clam at Woodman's, or the Brunswick Stew at Johnny Harris' in Savannah.

Is it possible to find God in a sandwich? If so, then His/Her name is Nellie.