Begin by clearing a suitable area for your prep. A proper space that knows magic is about to happen. Ideally, use a butcher’s block. Heavy, solid, and slightly scarred.

Arrange your tools to one side. Close enough to reach, but not to interfere. A bread knife with heft. A tablespoon. A small plate. Spirit level. This is your true self. Your version of a mixtape.

Ingredients:

Sourdough
Full-fat butter (salted, unrefrigerated)
Mature cheddar (the stronger, the better)
Sliced chorizo (oily, with a bit of heat)
Thick-cut ham (hand-carved, slow-roasted)
Branston pickle (chunky)
1 ring of red onion
A handful of rocket
Freshly cracked black pepper

The sourdough must be tough. The real stuff. Chewy, gnarled, vaguely menacing. And it must have a jaw-testing crust. The kind that could sit in a fancy bowl of tomato and basil soup for hours.

Cut it thick. Make each slice count.

Lay two pieces side by side. Choose the heaviest one to be your base. This is the hero. It will carry the weight of the whole sandwich.

Dig a tablespoon into your butter . Take as much as you can get . Then smother the leading bread slice. Fill all the holes and ridges. Leave nothing unbuttered.

Next, the cheddar. If it doesn’t smell like something you once tried to forget, go out and buy better. You want something your neighbours can appreciate. Press it down firmly. Hard enough for butter to ooze from the sides.

Slice the chorizo next. It should be greasy, nearly black. You want it thin, but not too thin. About 3mm. Set it directly on the cheese.

Now introduce the ham. Some with a little bark, as if turned on a spit beside a medieval hearth. Sturdy enough that it won’t fold. Absolutely no plastic-packed squares.

Add a generous dollop of Branston on top. If it doesn’t immediately remind you of a village fête, you need more. Pick a spot on the pickle to place the red onion ring. Go with your gut, but don’t sink it. It should fit like a funeral director’s top hat.

You’ve never trusted rocket before, but now’s the time. It will bring out the flavour and add some colour. A handful, no more. It will betray you if you let it.

Finish with a crack or two of black pepper. Go easy. Remember you’re seasoning, not punishing.

Take the remaining slice of bread. No need for more butter. Place it delicately on top.

Cut the sandwich diagonally. Angle it like an open book. Take a moment to savour every layer. Give it a name.

When you’re ready, wipe the knife clean, but don’t wash it. It should remember what it did here.

Wrap your masterpiece in wax paper and tie it with string. Your work is done. The rest is between her and the sandwich.

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The Most Dreadful Thing

19. How to craft the perfect sandwich