I Hate Sandwiches
This might be blasphemy in the land of the hoagie (a sub to everyone else), but I hate sandwiches. First, I hate lunch meat. Actually, all meat that’s cold. Our distant ancestors harnessed fire so we could roast that mammoth. Every time we pull thin strips of meat out of our refrigerators we dishonor their memories and their sacrifices (because you know there were some serious burns during the R&D phase.)
Second, I hate condiments. I have no clue what goes into mayonnaise, but anything that jiggles in its jar and looks a lot like what my baby coughed up during her time with croup, is not going in my mouth. Also, mustard. It’s a powder in my pantry but a liquid in my fridge. What happened to it?
The bread is the only thing I like, and even then I only really like rye bread or a chewy sourdough. And thanks, health articles, for ruining carbs for me.
Why am I railing against the sandwich, you ask. If I don’t like them, it seems easy enough to avoid. And so it would seem…
Enter the children.
They need to tote their lunches with them to their respective places of learning every day. One because he gets no real lunch break and needs to ingest calories between AP History and Spanish. The other because her cafeteria is so expensive that we could eat out twice a week for a week’s worth of the locally sourced, organic fare they serve.
So I make sandwiches, every morning.
And I complain. Loudly.
One morning the elder offspring appeared at my side, hovering over me now that he touches 6 feet tall.
“Mom, we can pack our own lunches.” His voice calm and matter of fact.
Tears burst from my eyes. Of course they can pack their own lunches. At 17 and 12 they can do everything for themselves. And that’s the point. Soon there will be no AP History, because he’ll be in college. And there will be no high end cafeteria because she’s driving herself to school and will stop at the deli on her way. And I’ll be left with half a jar of spicy mustard, a loaf of stale bread, and some sweet memories.