I’ve recently perused a sample copy of the “new” Reader’s Digest sent to me by its publisher and, like the old grey mare, she ain’t what she used to be. She’s very tiny and still sort of fun to read, at $8 per year, which is about the same as a pound of hamburger these days. As I’ve written before, the Reader’s Digest used to research its stories with a vengeance. I’m not so certain these days. Of course, it still has old features like Humor in Uniform and Life in These United States.

But one big feature that floored me was a long story which purported to name the favorite sandwich from all 50 states. The story included some obvious choices, like crabcake sandwiches in Maryland and lobster rolls in Maine and some truly disgusting favorites from below the Mason Dixon Line, like the Slugburger from Mississippi, which used to cost a nickel (a slug) and was an ersatz hamburger, with the meat enhanced with beans and other cheap fillers like flour. There were also some bad ones north of the border, like the Fluttermutter in Massachusetts, which consisted of peanut butter and marshmallow fluff spread on white bread, phoned or emailed in by one Leila Mercer of Hudson, Mass. (The Bay State Chamber of Commerce should lock her up).

They do a fair job with Minnesota, with a walleye sandwich but why would you muck it up with head lettuce? Wisconsin scored with brats cooked in beer, but why also muck it up with sauerkraut? And speaking of cabbage, poor Kansas, ended up with Bierocks, “doughballs stuffed with cabbage, onions and seasoned meats,” brought to the U.S. by Germans from Russia, or Mennonites, which a Mennonite told me that this cuisine was an admixture of the worst of Russian food and the worst of German.

The Digest gave honors to North Dakota by describing hot beefs as “piling potatoes ON top of a beef sandwich and smothering it in gravy.” That’s not quite right, according to my stepmother, who ran restaurants for 50 years. She called them “commercial” because they were a favorite of her travelling sales customers at her “Snack Shop.” A “hot beef” is a totally different animal, crockpot- stewed beef on a soft bun and served to perfection by Mrs. Rose Schoenberger at the Hotel Independence, just down the road from my stepmom’s place. Both great!

And the commercial needn’t be beef. Stepmom served pork roast on white bread with pork gravy, slices of ham loaf covered with cream gravy, slices of meatloaf with onion gravy, slices of roast ham with cream gravy, slices of turkey with chicken gravy. Each sandwich was sliced in two, separated with one scoop of potatoes, and one scoop of stuffing, then immersed in appropriate gravy.

Two states named PBJ’s, Idaho’s with huckleberry jam, Colorado’s with blueberry jam AND a pound of bacon. (What a waste of nature’s most perfect food made primarily of fat!)

I outgrew PBJ’s when I was 12 years old and worked picking strawberries for a truck gardener with my pal Ronnie Johnstad, whose mother Olga was a wonderful cook. One day I traded sandwiches with Ronnie, who spit out my PBJ. And me? I gobbled down Ronnie’s which was white bread, butter, and a slice of Bermuda onion, which had been rinsed in cold water, salted and placed on the peanut butter. These days, it’s even better than it was in the Skippy and Jif days, what with the brown stuff made entirely with roasted peanuts and sea salt, usually called Real Peanut Butter. Add a quarter-inch slice of all beef-bologna (not the kind made with chicken skin and turkey guts). Now top the onion and you’ve got a real sandwich. As long as I’m binging on peanut butter, I’ll tell you my favorite sandwich, served at the late, lamented Seargeant Preston’s Saloon in South Minneapolis. It was a make-it yourself concoction at Preston’s sandwich buffet. One big slice of sourdough bread, spread with cashew butter, crumbled crisp bacon, chopped red onion and alfalfa sprouts.

OK, one more: Years back, the late, lamented Little Wagon in downtown Minneapolis served a sandwich that was a favorite at our table, which was populated with admen, journalists, and big eaters like George Mikan and Viking Benchwarmer Bob Lurtsema. The late lamented Littke Wagon Bar served a simple item: two slices of Marble Rye, generously buttered and stuffed with an entire can of King Oscar Sardines packed and topped with a slice of sweet Vidalia onion, $3. One day this blockbuster disappeared from the menu.

“BUT WHY?” we chorused from behind our very dry martinis.

“Because,” replied owner Jerry Benda. “King Oscar Sardines are costing $2.75 a can.” Undaunted, on the following day, adman Jery Wollan appeared with four cans of King Oscar Sardines and ordered sandwiches for our table of four. Chef Bob cooperated, opening the cans and constructing the sandwiches. Co-owner Dan Mramer presented us with the check. $12.

“TWELVE DOLLARS!” we chorused. “Opening sardine cans isn’t cheap you know ,,, those curved ends are difficult to negotiate….” replied co-owner Dapper Dan Mramer, the guy who also posted a permanent sign above his backbar,“FREE BEER – TOMORROW,”