The Thanksgiving leftover sandwich, an American institution, is under attack.

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Confit turkey thighs. Roasted sweet potatoes. Creamed spinach casserole. You’ve seen this all before as examples of standard Thanksgiving fare. However, what I’m listing here are not the dishes that will be on my table on Thursday but the filling of a specialty Thanksgiving sandwich from the highly esteemed Philadelphia sandwich shop Middle Child. The creation, dubbed the Turkey Dip, comes with all of that layered atop orange-cranberry-sauced bread and is paired with a side of gravy. Middle Child consistently serves up interesting twists on comforting classics, and it’s not the only upscale sandwich shop trying to move in on Turkey Day territory. Edith’s in New York has been selling the Carmela for three years, North Buena Deli in Chicago is known for its Thanksgiving special, and Mendocino Farms in California has one called November to Remember, to name a few. Just two years ago, Stephanie Farr went around Philly to try seven different Thanksgiving hoagies for the Inquirer.

Nowadays, as sandwich shops have become one of the more hyped genres of city eateries, many of these specials are selling out faster than you can say “gobble gobble.” That’s all well and good for these restaurants’ bottom lines, but is it good for us? Forgive me for not sticking with the gratitude of the season, but when it comes to this particular seasonal food fad, I’ve got a wishbone to pick.

The Thanksgiving-leftovers sandwich is, as I’m sure you will agree, the greatest joy of the holiday. Yes, there’s the friends and family and merriment and all that, but I don’t think anyone would argue with the fact that 1) Thanksgiving foods are the best and 2) they reach their apotheosis in the days after the big meal, when the dishes have had time to marinate in their seasonings, spices, and jus. And, following this train of thought, the best vehicle for most leftovers—but especially well-steeped Thanksgiving leftovers—is a sandwich, packed to the gills with your remaining dry turkey, chunky cranberry sauce, and stewed and crisp veggies and slathered with sides of pureed starches. If you love yourself (and I think you should), you will toast two slices of bread and create a Thanksgiving tower so structurally and gastronomically elegant that it would make that prickly architect aunt of yours proud. Or, in a pinch, you make the cold, quick, low-lift version, layering whatever ya got on whatever ya want as quickly as possible, relishing in the concept of resting over the holidays.

Now, it’s worth noting that the leftover sandwich is not a new TikTok trend but a tried-and-true Thanksgiving tradition, particularly in New England, where the concept of the Pilgrim or Gobbler sandwich has existed for a long time. In fact, scholars have made a meal of trying to chart its origins. Though it’s hard to pinpoint an exact time and place, some theorize that the idea of repurposing Thanksgiving leftovers into the handheld food form is as old as, quite literally, sliced bread. According to food historian Paula Marcoux, interviewed by Boston.com, the earliest time period in which she was able to locate a published recipe of the dish was at some point after World War II. Today every prominent chef and food influencer of our time, from the Pioneer Woman to Sohla El-Waylly to Gaby Dalkin of WhatsGabyCookin fame, has published their take on the Thanksgiving sandwich.

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So the idea of the leftover sandwich is not itself new. What has changed is people’s interest in procuring one outside the home: According to Google Trends, people are searching “thanksgiving sandwich” four times as often as they were two decades ago, and there are Reddit threads of folks asking for the best places to procure the seasonal delight in their respective cities. And this is where things get gamy: My disappointment isn’t that the sandwiches exist commercially, or even that they’re good. It’s that they’re too good.

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Despite my commitment to tradition, even I cannot resist succulent, restaurant-quality turkey nestled between two pieces of locally sourced bread and dressed with all manner of culinarily enhanced fixings, a dribble of expertly blended gravy running down my hands. The sad truth is, these sandwiches put anything I could cobble together to shame. And what, then, was all the effort I put into saving my homemade leftovers for? These days, the best part of the holiday meal can’t live up even to the perfected version someone is selling the neighborhood over for $18. I look at my Thanksgiving leftovers and feel nothing but disgrace. There was, at one point, a strong tradition awaiting me on Black Friday and beyond. But that tradition has been shattered, left in ruins by some yassified marvel I’d have to put clothes and shoes on to acquire.

That’s if I can even acquire it. I shouldn’t have been surprised when I went to Edith’s to try the Carmela twice and, both times, found that they were sold out (even a mere hour or so after the store had opened). Not only have my own holiday cooking efforts been handily bested; I can’t even be sure I’ll obtain the better option. Is nothing sacred?

Listen, I have a large amount of respect for these innovative, fun sandwich shops. And yeah, the offerings—holiday special or not—are really good. But, that said, I do mourn yet another instance of taking a humble part of life and transforming it into an extreme, maximalist commodity. I’m not above ordering one (Carmela, when I get my hands on you …!), but for however mind-blowing their flavor, these sandwiches will always leave a bitter taste on my tongue.

In an era when even “leftovers” have been optimized, I don’t think my Tupperware containers can ever again hope to brim with the same level of magic and possibility they once did.