Deli Delivered

"I'll have a quarter pound of your most reliable cheese."

When it comes to sports, the SJG is more of a sporadic supporter.  I feign interest and shout "woo-hoo!" from upstairs, while the menfolk go apesh*t downstairs.  Now and then, I make an exception.  I get caught up in the hope and potential glory, the rage and disappointment.  It depends on the team, really.  If my Bruins are playing, I can get as meshuggah as the next dude.  Years ago, when UCLA made the play-offs, I happened to serve deli during a big game.  They won.  After that, the youngest son, armed with an arsenal of sports-related suspicions and rituals, insisted I serve deli every time UCLA played.  We ate it twice a week, right through to the Final Four.  How well did I handle this continuous loop of cold cuts and cole slaw?  Just fine.  I was raised on the stuff.  I didn't mind.  Until the deli debacle.  The market was out of certain key ingredients.  I got a different cheese, a different rye, and the Bruins went down to defeat.  My fault.  Sorry.  It was a dark day in the home of the SJG.  I haven't served deli during an important sporting event since.  Too risky.  Until last night.  The Stanley Cup was at stake.  The youngest was up in Santa Cruz.  He wouldn't even know the meal plan in Sherman Oaks.  In the morning, I got a feeling.  I texted hubby.  "Deli?"  His answer:  "Hell, yes."  So I threw caution to the wind.  I went for it.  The turkey, the cheese, the corn rye, the slaw.  Score!  Is it a coinky that the Kings won the Stanley Cup for the first time ever?  Let me think about that.  No.  No coinky here.  Deli delivered.  You're welcome, Los Angeles.  I'm happy to serve.