Speaking of deli-meat, I've always been fond of tongue sandwiches -- on rye with a little mustard, pickle on the side. Tongue is a fascinating meat -- you can often see big old taste buds along the edges and the grain of the muscle across the face of each slice. And best of all: it's a tongue.

You're tasting it, it's tasting you. Lunchtime reciprocity.

So as I sit here at my desk, still stinking of the salami and soppresata sandwich I had for lunch, I was dumbfounded to hear of the woman from Minnesota whose impromptu midnight snack featured tongue but did not include any mustard (and certainly no pickle).

The story reminded me of two things: a tour of New York City that we gave Alane back in 1989. We stopped at the Carnegie deli and Guido ordered a tongue sandwich that was about the size of a Volkswagen. He ate half and carried the other half with him as we walked the remaining length of Manhattan. On that walk, Mike had remarked upon every aspect of architecture we passed, and I'm sure if we could have put some mustard on his tongue, we would have.

The story also reminded me of MariaRose who, riding safely in the backseat of Vinny's spiffy leased car, did not have a tongue sandwich but clearly wished she did. None being available, she instead took a bite out of the car's upholstery.

I wasn't there to see Vinny's reaction when he spotted the hole and the protruding padding, but I'm told that for a several high-tension moments he had trouble speaking.

Whatasamatter, Vin? Cat got your tongue?