A little background is necessary here. First off, my family is basically middle-middle class as far back as I can trace. I often joke with friends that my forebears probably made Manwiches on the Mayflower. This, of course, means that I come from a long line of Manwich makers. It was no surprise to anyone in my family that I studied the art of Manwich making when I went to college; I had said as much when I was in the seventh grade, and I have an aunt who went the same way, but she lost sight of the true aesthetics of the Manwich as well as family tradition and started putting goat cheese and portabella mushrooms in her Manwiches. A disgrace.
Most of the men in my family, likewise, are tradesmen of only one kind: MANWICH. All through my childhood, I witnessed adults struggling to support the massive structures they would create at supper time with pounds upon pounds of Manwich meat; my stepfather even used rods to support one such five-pound Manwich that took two men to eat it. What this meant for me was that whatever I was going to do, it had to be, foremost, a trade that my family would be proud of: Manwich Maker.
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