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December 18, 2013

Welcome back to our series of Festive Toasties! Ding dong merrily on high, fa la la la la etc.

Following on from last time’s difficulties with festive food from the Northern hemisphere, today we shall be experimenting with something more suited for an Antipodean Christmas.


Pavlova is of course the iconic Kiwi Christmas dessert. It’s crunchy on the outside, fluffy and soft in the middle, and head-spinningly sweet. Best served with cream, strawberries, and a grim determination to finish a whole slice when you’ve just eaten Christmas lunch.


It’s not a dessert without controversy however. The country of origin of the pavlova – New Zealand or Australia – was passionately debated over for decades. However academic research has concluded that it was in fact created in 1926 in a hotel in Wellington (NZ), and there’s a very interesting book on the subject by Helen Leach which I recommend if you’re into that kind of thing. Which I am.


However, I have noticed that in the debate over the origin of the pavlova, no one raised the issue of what it’s like in a toasted sandwich.

Frankly people, this saddens me greatly. But by Jove, I’ll answer this question once and for all.


Well, our first answer to this question is – it lacks internal strength. The pavlova collapsed almost immediately when the toastie maker lid was lowered.

Not that this is a surprise at all, considering it’s a dessert in which one of the chief ingredients is air. I’m just saying maybe don’t use pavlova as building material or anything.

Though if you do please let me know, because that would be awesome.


Our next observation is the clear indication of the presence of leakage.

A.K.A., I’m going to have to wipe down the bench when I’m finished.


Taking a peek inside, it is evident that the scale of the leakage is bigger than I expected. Also, the top bread slice appears to have slid from its original position, obviously forced by the action of the toastie maker lid being put down. It’s the sandwich equivalent of tectonic plates shifting, if the plates were made of white toast bread and the earth’s magma was in fact sugar, egg whites, and cream.


But even a geological metaphor can’t hide the fact that what I’ve created is actually a sweet fried egg sandwich.

Oh. Yay.


Unfortunately the innards just confirm this. That glossy sheen on the cooked egg white is particularly… appetising.


The cross section. The bread had become quite soggy, giving it a slightly wilted appearance.

Which is frankly the only thing this sandwich has going for it.


Toastability: 1/5 – this toastie comes under the ‘problematic-with-the-potential-to-be-disastrous’ category of toasting ingredients. Leakage and an epic cleanup afterwards, I’m used to. But the way the bread immediately shifted out of place is new, and poses a fundamental problem in the structure of the sandwich. I’m not impressed.

Taste: 1/5 – also unimpressed by the taste. It’s mushy sweet fried egg with a hint of strawberry. I know they say you only live once and so you should try lots of different things, but I am telling you this is not one of those things. Put the toastie down and walk away.

2 Comments leave one →
  1. December 20, 2013 1:25 am

    Brilliant 🙂

  2. December 28, 2013 6:06 pm


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