Armed with sharp teeth and ready to attack their ten pound,four and a half foot sub sandwhich are (l to r) Ronald Picinich, Tom Walkman, Frank Viscio, Anthony DeMiglio, Frank Valenti, Joe Provanzano, Mike Corollo and George Petersen. All are students at William Floyd High School, in Mastic, Long Island.

Homemaking 4, with Miss Daye at the helm has eight teenagers with such unlady like monikers as Joe Provanzano, Tony DiMeglio and Mike Corollo. Most of them are athletes big enough to fit into the Green Bay Packer line, and therefore they take very little guff from their fellow students who might otherwize be inclined to rib them. And, as Mis Daye says,"Boys make better chefs than girls."

Not long ago their fame flashed all over the United States when Gary Moore's TV show "I've Got A Secret" got wind of their goings on. Gary's panelists, after wracking their brains for a time, did finally guess the hobby of Miss Daye and her boys. For this the panelists were rewarded with such lip-lickers' delights as duck canton aus annay, shrimp scampi, lasagne and sole mornay. All of the celebrities declared these tid-bits supreme with the exception of Henry Morgan. He wasn't sold on the sole mornay, Tony DeMiglio's master fish dish.Tony was apparantley as little impressed by Morgan as Morgan was with the fish. " I coulda hit him with it" Tony said, reliving that bitter moment.

Otherwise the public appearance was a success, And they enjoyed meeting panelists Betsy Palmer and Bess Myerson. The boys called them "real dolls—an observation that no one in his right mind would disagree with.

Now celebrities themselves, the boys launched into their latest masterpiece— a submarine sandwich the world would never forget. BOYS' LIFE—always at the ready for a gastronomic first—decided to watch them in action.

One problem that cropped up right off the bat. They didn't have an oven big enough to bake a four and a half foot loaf of Italian bread. But Mr. Cacciola, a nearby baker of unquestioned repute, was commisioned to create the doughy delight. His instructions were to the point. "It should be billowy as a cumulus cloud, crisp as an autumn leaf." Mr. Cacciola came through, knowing that if his effort was a success, his recipe would be sought after like Irish Sweepstake tickets.

Of course, an untilled length of Italian bread is a desolate stretch of acerage until food geniuses fill it. This, Miss Daye's boys did, assembly line fashion, humming arias from Pagliacci and plastering the great highway of dough with roast beef, macaroni salad, celery, Greek olives, tomatoes, gherkins, pimentos, hard boiled eggs, bologna, ham, chicken salad, provolone cheese, onions, tuna fish salad, shrimp salad, eggplant, peppers and dill pickles –ten pounds of groceries booming with 8,902 calories.

I was little impressed with their hasty, hod carriers approach to putting the monstrosity together, but the end result was pure splendor. They were following a master design—a big plan that suddenly struck me. They were fashioning their sandwich after the atomic submarine Skipjack— right down to the last bolt.

On went the superstructure, a hollowed out hunk of eggplant stuffed with chicken salad. Into this they propped a periscope, a lean altitudinous dill pickle. At this point a sharp disagreement broke out. Progress halted. Frank Valenti was wondering where to put the onion ring portholes. Ronald Picinich, wise to the ways of underwater craft, insisted atomic subs have no portholes. Frank gave in and solved the problem by eating the onion rings.

Satisfied that their colossus was a thing of beauty, they were at a loss as to what to with it. I suggested the trophy case in the corridor as an appropriate resting place. This they didn't buy. Their wild preparations had made them ravenous and they attacked the sub teeth-first. I got in my licks amidships, shearing the periscope and ending up where the tuna fish met the provole cheese.

Miss Daye was right: Boys make better chefs than girls do. Boys have more imagination, they're more enthusiastic-and they'll taste anything.

THE END