On Tuesday night, Wayne was out doing beer-soaked pop-a-wheelies with a friend turning 40; the baby and I were flying solo for supper.

I had some thrillingly thin butterflied turkey breast on hand and it barbecued itself in two minutes flat. I chopped some up onto Booboo’s tray along with little pieces of cocktail tomatoes, little slices of delicious Rowe Farm ham, and torn up pieces of whole-wheat. In a slightly serial-killer style that I’ve adopted, I arranged it all on his tray in a perfectly straight line, looked down and realized, Dio buono, that’s a frigging clubhouse sandwich. The secret of my own dinner was instantly revealed.

I grabbed a soft white Italian bun and mayonnaised it, then layed it with the thrillingly thin grilled turkey breast, the Rowe Farm ham, juicy red tomato slices with salt and pepper, and a big handful of arugula.

It was the kind of clubhouse I’d serve if Carlo Gambino stopped by – really, a clubhouse sangwich. No meddlesome side salad, nothing. Just one giant sangwich, hammily satisfying in that high-on-the-food-chain way.

Drop by tomorrow and I’ll tell you about the amazing dessert I chased it with: my all-time favourite there’s-nothing-for-dessert-but-wait!-this-is-dessert! dessert. It’s a making-an-over-the-top-sugar-hit-out-of-nothing-at-all dessert, worthy of every single hyphen.