When I was a kid, my grandmother would sometimes give me sandwiches filled with a mixture of grated carrot, grated cheese and mayonnaise. And I hadn't even done anything wrong.
If your brain is struggling to compute this combo, think of it as coleslaw but made by someone who couldn't be stuffed walking to the shops for cabbage and decided to sub in some grated cheese instead.
I have a strong suspicion these sandwiches are part of the reason I am such a damaged adult. They were a crime against the human mouth, and I take no joy in detailing this childhood trauma in the following paragraphs.
The sandwiches were usually made on white bread that had no discernible nutritional value, slathered with bright yellow margarine. The cheese was cleft from that strange Kraft block in the blue packaging that you found on the supermarket shelf (why didn't it need to be refrigerated? WHY?), and the mayo was the low-rent kind that was like thinned down Clag craft paste with a weird tang.
The margarine was there to make a valiant attempt at preventing the filling from making the bread soggy, but frankly, it never stood a chance. The combined moisture from the carrot and the mayonnaise was too much for the margarine to handle, and you were invariably left with bread that disintegrated upon contact with your hand, and a sludge that ran down your arm and into your sleeve. Then your mum would yell at you for having orange slime all over your face and your school uniform. Viva la 1980s (also, RIP grandma, you meant well, and I love you very much).
