We went to the dentist last week. We’re still getting over it. Yes, I am one more in the mass number of people who hate/loathe/are tempted to put off (read: skip) their routine cleanings. I’m still all nerves about the ordeal and I’ve had almost a week to recover. On top of the typical scraping and scratching and poking and vicious vibrations, the cracked lips, the jaw tension and tension induced migraine that all comes with the procedure of professional mouth cleaning, they also gave me the added bonus of a nasty cold and sore throat I was sure would turn into strep if I made one mistake (read: did not follow their instructions to floss 5,000 times a day and after each meal, including snacks, like gum.) You would think that a regular, normal, compassionate human being would not want a profession of making someone elses morning so cruelly dreadful. I mean, it’s kind of a risky profession when almost every human being would rather the alternative of letting their teeth fall out instead of having to worry about the blood bath their mouth is about to undergo.

Anyway, after they did whatever horrible thing they do inside mouth caverns, they told me in big, large, medical jargon that my mouth was a diseased black hole. I should note that I did not, and do not have any cavities. I’m just saying, 24 years without cavities deserves some recognition, like a party, or my picture on their wall of no-cavity-mouth fame, right? But no. I was accused of not wearing my retainer, which in my defense I never pretended like I wore it, and invasive pictures of my gums were then flashed before my eyes and I was told shame on you Meg. Shame. And I walked out feeling terrible about my life’s non-flossing ways and how I was told if I even wanted a remote chance of keeping the remaining teeth I had (read: that would be all of them) then I needed to be an avid, aggressive flosser and to never eat a single thing again to protect the careful scrape job just preformed on my pie hole. Oh yes, and I needed some fancy, vibrating tooth brush because my arms (which are super strong and built from lugging my 24-pound toddler baby around) were just too weak to use a manual, normal, grounded person’s toothbrush.

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Out of the handful of parties and umpteen no-reason-but-we-should get togethers we have gone to in the last month I have never left one without a side cocked head and a huh? eeked out of a slightly opened mouth when the flaky phyllo stuffed triangle they just bit into had the audacity to be called a strudel. I thought strudels were sweet. Aren’t strudels fruit filled with a creamy-cheese icing drizzled on top? Are you sure these are strudels? And with each disbelieving person I nod my head and smile, trying to look confident as each person becomes more persistant that I am indeed wrong in the naming of the dish I brought (ahem, out of the kindness of my heart).

Really, I want to reply with a, Well, does it taste good? Do you like it? How ’bout that combination of lamb, spinach and feta — totally rocks, right? So then why does it matter if it is technically called a strudel or something else? But that is the very sarcastic cynical side of me, that I try to keep shoved in a box under my bed as much as possible since it makes me look impossibly snooty and petty 16-year old girl-ish mean.

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As much as I like making complicated meals that give me a sense of accomplishment, it seems it’s always the simple, easy meals my husband raves about. My first attempt at homemade pasta was definitely well received and cheers given honoring my efforts and the results, but later that night I was hearing (for the tenth time) exceeding praise for the sandwich I made the week before.  I’ve been trying to ween my husband away from the whole “slab of meat and slice of cheese crammed between two pieces of bread” idea but after making this sandwich, I must agree — sometimes the only thing that can hit the spot is a nice big sandwich.

Warm pita pockets filled with the usuals such as lettuce and tomato seems ordinary until you taste the crumbled feta over warm lamb  — and that is not something most sandwiches can boast. This gyro is not heavy like most meat packed sandwiches; the lamb actually crumbles like feta, and is flavored with mint, lemon and red onion then rolled into balls and flattened into small disks. The patties are cooked in the skillet until they reach the perfect combination of crispy edges and moist and tender insides. And no gyro would be complete without the cucumber-yogurt sauce, tzatziki, which makes a great salad dressing for all the left over sandwich fixings.

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