I have just ironed my husband a toasted sandwich like some kind of tradwife and to be honest, I’m disappointed with his reaction. Admittedly, there were a few issues. The steam didn’t help, plus I wrapped it in too much tinfoil, so the heat couldn’t penetrate. The main problem, though, was that holding an iron meant I automatically started ironing the package, pressing hard and going to and fro industriously. The result is flat, very flat. “We have a sandwich toaster,” my husband points out, holding the crepe-thin delicacy between finger and thumb. He should be thrilled: this is the closest I’ve come to cooking for him in months. He tries it, reluctantly. “It’s very soft. Did you put mustard in it?”
“I thought it would help,” I say.
