PRACTICE
Write for ten minutes. There must be a sandwich included in your story.
When you're finished, post it in the comments section and comment on a few other practitioners pieces.
Photo by enjoyable photography for bears
Here's my practice.
I didn't volunteer. I was chosen. My friends volunteered, and I was chosen to help them make 80 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. With spoons.
Our high school youth group was on a trip and our service project would overlap with lunch the following day so we'd take lunch to the project site with us. It all seemed logical until our leaders realized they'd forgotten to pack knives.
Ten of us made an assembly line down the hotel banquet room table haphazardly scooping peanut butter and jelly onto pieces of bread and sticking them into little baggies.
My job was to man the peanut butter which I quickly realized is harder to spread with a spoon than with a knife. With every scoop there was more peanut butter on my hands than on the bread. Truthfully, I didn't care. It was only night one of our trip and I had yet to establish which cute boys I wanted to impress.
When we finished sticking together 80 sandwiches, we asked what to do with the leftover peanut butter and jelly. The leaders hadn't anticipated having four open jars of each but no remaining bread.
Spoon in hand, I had an idea.
And so we began, one by one, spoonful by spoonful, eating the remaining peanut butter and jelly until our lips stuck together and our throat was clogged.
For the rest of the night, I couldn't stop smacking my lips. There are some things water just won't cure and the vending machine was empty.
But I have no regrets.
We sat across from each other in the lunch room. We were elementary school friends. Everyday I would watch her eat her peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Some days my friend would pause just long enough to flip her sandwich over before she took the first bite.
“Nicole, why do you do that sometimes?” I asked.
“Do what?” she replied.
“Why do you sometimes flip your sandwich over before you eat it?”
“I want the peanut butter on the bottom so it doesn’t stick to the roof of my mouth.” she replied plainly.
I looked at her and giggled, “Huh”
I took a bite of my turkey and cheese and wondered if she might be on to something.
It is of course one of Newton’s best-known laws of gravity that bread will always fall butter side down. I have not yet tested whether this also holds good for peanut butter. No doubt your friend is an expert In these matters. I love her logic and I think I shall also love your e-book A Mistake Maker’s Manifesto! The anecdote ‘Eat An Umbrella’ is lovely!
p.s. I am from Australia, where everything is upside down and bread falls upwards into the sky, providing manna for heaven.
haha! Thanks for the laugh. I loved her upside down logic too. 🙂 And, thanks so much for clicking over and getting my eBook. Nice to be introduced to another Australian! I’ve “met” several folks from the land down under on Twitter. Love how “small” the world becomes via social media. Look forward to getting to know you.
Isn’t it funny how those school lunches stick in our minds! Loved this story.
Yes, the weirdest things stick with us!
LOL!
The 4th Earl of Sandwich was a devil-worshipper and it is not surprising therefore that he should have come up with the idea of the sandwich, as devilish an invention as you could ever hope to find. It is said that he was gambling at the time and would not stop to take a proper meal. I’ll bet he never gambolled on the beaches of Sandwich nor picnicked there on the sand where wild channel winds blow up what in other parts of the world might be called dust devils, but here, more properly, are termed sand witches. These fiends have a way of conjuring grains of sand into even the most delectable sandwiches ever devised for the pleasure of the upper crust. It is fitting, too, that James Cook should have named the Sandwich Islands after this nefarious man, the sandwich after all being no more than an island of exotic fare upon a crusted reef of bread.
Very creative Tony. “an island of an exotic fare upon a crusted reef of bread” I like that!
I agree!
Jennie spooned up her breakfast oatmeal as she watched her mom making the school sandwiches. It all started with a huge loaf of pumpernickel bread, Russian Bread, the bakery called it. You couldn’t find it in the Acme market. The loaf was so big you needed two hands to carry it. Mom sliced it in half with a long knife, made long slices of bread, then cut those in half to make a sandwich.
Jennie was eight years old, and there were six other siblings in school with her. Mom made 14 sandwiches, two for each kid, every morning. The entire kitchen was spread with pumpernickel bread. Mostly balogna went on top of the bread, a little mayo or mustard, maybe lettuce. Then the sandwiches went into a little waxed-paper sandwich bag, and into a brown paper lunch bag.
Jennie sighed. Her stomach turned over as she imagined the typical cafeteria scene at school. All the other kids had cute lunch boxes with Cinderella or Micky Mouse on the outside. They had cookies in their lunch, potato chip snacks and money to buy chocolate milk. But it was the bread that worried her. Everybody else had white bread. When she took out her lunch she tried to hide the bread inside the waxed paper bag so no one would question her. Was it her imagination that conversation stopped when they saw her sandwich? All she wanted was to be like the others. It was bad enough she was lousy at softball on the playground and the last to be chosen on the team. Her dream was a sandwich on Wonder Bread.
It was many years before pumpernickel was her own choice, one she ate with pride and looked her companions straight in the eye as she chewed. “I’m different and I like who I am,” she whispered between bites.
Hi Eva Rose – I really like how the sandwich in your story has become a point of difference for Jennie, how she notices it. I think you really could dive into the story right at the cafeteria scene and expand on Jennie’s thoughts, feelings, in that moment. That’s the most powerful part, in my opinion. Would be great to color it in a bit. Just my thoughts – love your take on the sandwich theme! Hope this feedback was helpful
Thanks for your thoughts! That’s helpful.
I really like this, Eva Rose. I felt for your character and those awkward school years when you just wanted to fit in. “Her dream was a sandwich on Wonder Bread.” This line says a lot. Glad Jennie started liking pumpernickel. I LOVE pumpernickel!
very good, using the bread to link the ages…
She felt the most incredible calm sweep over her. He will
walk through that door, she thought, and I will be at ease. I will give him a
chance to explain.
The kitchen of her apartment was full of ant traps, peeling
faded wallpaper, and food crumbs littered on the floor. None of the roommates
wanted to give in and take care of it, so it was left constantly disgusting. But
Julie did not notice the heightened level of filth in the kitchen today; she
focused on the work at her hands. Carefully spreading the mayo, breaking the
lettuce, sprinkling the salt, on the lovingly made sandwiches they would eat on
the fire escape in the impossible summer heat.
He knocked once, hard, loud, like he always did. Julie wiped
her hands on the front of her jeans and took a deep breath. He slumped through the door, walking right passed her, throwing his warn denim jacket on the small brown sofa that was pushed against the wall.
“I made us dinner,” she stuttered out. But Paul’s back was
turned to her, checking his phone. She could hear his fingers clicking away at
the keys. He must be talking to her, Julie thought. She squished the pieces of
rye bread between her fingers, absentmindedly picking up the sandwich, takingout her rage on it.
She felt as if she were watching herself from above as she
hurled the sandwich, with perfect aim at the back of his head, with all of her
small might.
“What the fuck,” Paul screamed as the lettuce, tomato, and
turkey joined the dirty crumbs on the apartment floor.
You really set the ‘angry’ scene here! I enjoyed it.
Thanks Kim – felt like a good anger release to write it! haha
The tale does
not end here. The questions of where the sandwiches are and how do I get to
them continued to mystify my mind. Nevertheless, I would not give up my quest.
As I walked
into the room, I noticed Jake Jr., I knew him from the neighborhood. I had also interviewed some weeks ago
concerning the Alcott murder.
He was in
the corner eating something green. I had hoped it was something that was
actually edible and not just a pile of mold but with Jake Jr., one could never
tell.
After all, word
on the street was he had the reputation of being a connoisseur of anything that
even looks remotely edible.
I had to
ask, “What are you eating now Jake?” His muffled reply, “Mayo and cheese on
spinach bread.” He nearly hit me with chunks of green bread. “Hey, you almost
got whatever that is you’re eating on my jacket; keep the food in your mouth!”
I moved on
to the central part of the house, the living room, I just had to investigate
all the noise going on. Ah! I found it. The center of the party. All I could
think of at that time was food. Where is all the food?
I look
around the room. I saw people talking to other people, couples dancing, and
heck I even seen two couples kissing off in the corner. I searched even harder.
There it is!
The food. There were chips and dips, trays of meats and cheeses, crackers,
cookies, bottles of soda, a tub full of beer, a bar next to eat with the hard
stuff, but no sandwiches. “What the heck”, I said to myself. I kept on looking
though, because I was hungry for sandwiches. Not just one mind you but for a
few.
I worked
hard all day and never stopped to eat or drink anything. They could have had a
rhino and cheese sandwich and I would eat the whole thing.
I moved a
few steps to my left around the middle-aged couple dancing to “Turn Around,
Look at Me” by the Letterman. “There is
someone watching your footsteps, turn around, look at
me…”
I found
them, sandwiches! Oh boy, my mission tonight is complete. I sauntered over to
the table holding these delicious delights. I reached for my first one of the
night, a tasty roast beef with cheese, tomato, lettuce, and mayo. Just as I was
about to take it off the tray I heard a loud screeching voice. A much too
familiar voice.
“Young man
just what do you think you are doing? It is two hours past your bedtime. You
have school in the morning”. “Mom”, I said this in elongated, up and down
emphasis. “I was hungry, I couldn’t sleep.” “No excuse young man, now take that
sandwich with you and off the bed, you hear?” “Yes mom, okay I’ll go.”
I started to weave my way back to my room when
stopped turned around and said, “Mom, Thank you for the sandwich, I love you.” “I
love you to Jasper, now off the bed, morning comes early.” “Good night mom.” “Good
night Jasper.”
I turned
back around and made my way back to my room. I let out a long sigh and said to
myself, “I have solved yet another great mystery, me, Jasper Brown Private Eye.”
I would like some critique as this is my first story I posted here. I have been a member for a short while and finally had the nerve to submit.
When they asked if I wanted banana on my grilled cheese I thought what the hell. I had no idea they would add honey and cinnamon, hooking me for life. I couldn’t sleep without one. I began taking them before my morning coffee. I began keeping them beside the bed slid between two books. At one point, I even kept one in the my shaving kit behind the mirror.
After two years of shameless addiction, my wife set up an intervention. I came home late from work one thursday evening and my whole family was there, her whole family too. There were close friends, acquaintances, colleagues, even my supplier from the local lunch counter that made them better than anyone, with butter on the outside rye bread pressed Italian style. They sat me down. I immediately began to cry. There was nothing I could do. My love for grilled banana cheese with honey and cinnamon was far greater than my love for living, yes I needed help. They suggested a farm, far from the city with no dairy. I told them how anything and everything reminded me of my one true greasy love. A tree. An elevator. The newspaper. Logging on. Turning off the alarm clock, every breath, gesture and thought revolved and evolved into that vice.
The farm was quiet. I got to read a lot. The people were nice. I was doing well until one lunch they served bacon and apple on a french roll.
lmao. Brilliant. I’d love to know if this was inspired by your enjoyment of these foods, or if it’s all make believe.
Actually I eat banana and cheese all the time, try it, even better with bacon!
Bacon makes everything better. 😀
I am soooooo hungry after reading this. Do you happen to have the address of that farm handy, as I suspect I will be needing it shortly!
LOL! Fab!
Thanks Kim
Love this, d! I can relate to food fetishes that need intervention.
While others wish for super powers like flying and being able to throw
semi trucks around, I wish simply for the ability to eat chocolate
croissants every single day, preferably at 10 am, swished down with a
giant cup of kickass coffee. And this will cause only the best of health
and a slim figure. Because I’ve got super powers. And now I’ve got a
craving…
The French do it, you can do!!
“Make me a sandwich, babe.”
I rolled my eyes in disgust at Greyson. He was such a pig.
“I’m walking around. You know what that means?”
I grinned. I wondered where my best friend was going to go with this. I didn’t call her Snark Queen for nothing.
“No. What does it mean, Taylor.”
Hmmm. He know longer sounds so cocky. I wonder what happened last night.
“It means you don’t deserve a sandwich.”
I fall off my chair, laughing my ass off. Greyson scowls at me. My boyfriend walked up. He had two bottles of water, and my garden salad. He slide one to Greyson.
“It helps to pour water over burns.”
The thunderous look gets turned to Sky. My guy’s shoulders are shaking as he tries to hold in his laughter. Taylor pokes Greyson.
“Go get a sandwich if you’re hungry.”
He grumbles as he rises. He heads into our shotgun kitchen and pulls the bread from the pantry, the mayo, and the chopped ham from the fridge.
“Don’t forget to put lettuce on mine, hun!” He freezes. “Thank you!” She flashes her dazzling smile at him. He dipped his head, and went back to work on the sandwiches.
Between two slices of lightly toasted rye bread:
One pound of succulent, smokey, pastrami, with its moist pink center and shiny black crust still steaming.
A generous squeeze of French’s classic yellow mustard.
Served with a side of crispy sour pickle and a Coke.
It’s almost too beautiful to eat and for the longest time I just sit back on my bed and stare right into it.
The tangy aroma that’s drifting up from this sandwich is making me drool like a hound dog in a meat market, but I’m not going to allow myself to even touch it – not yet anyway, and not for some time if I can help myself.
This particular sandwich is ‘Special’ – it said so on the menu, and as you can probably see, ‘Special’ is way more special than your regular everyday ‘special’ – you can tell because it has a big S right on up there are the front, just like Superman. And as a matter of fact, I believe this could be the most special ‘Special Pastrami on Rye’ that there’s ever been, or ever will be – certainly as far as I’m concerned, because this particular sandwich also happens to be my last – my last sandwich, my last of pretty much anything as things go, unless the Governor of this fine state grants me clemency during my last few hours on this cold, unforgiving rock, but somehow, I just know that’s not going to happen, and even if by some twisted miracle it did, I know that I’d only be delaying the inevitable, as I will answer to a higher justice. Now whether that’s a few hours away, or sometime way beyond this moment – beyond the familiar walls of this cell, right now it’s just me and my sandwich and I’m in no rush to finish it.
A great practice, I liked the way he contemplated the sandwich considering he was in a bit of a pickle! (groaaaaan)
Thanks for the comment – even the pickle gag (and it did make me gag a little ;o)
The hardest part for me was Americanizing the sandwich to suit the situation. We Brits don’t do death row and if we did we would probably enjoy a dainty cucumber sandwich or two before we walk the mile served with tea of course :O)
Oh I don’t know Barry, we might just take a ‘sub’ over the dainty! It’s a good point, we might share the same language but our cultures can be very different. If we try and do ‘American’ it can sound phony (not your post of course) 🙂
I thought about writing a piece with the word sandwich in it often and realised it made me hungry so there was only one thing to do, make one. I’m one of these people that likes the art of sandwich making. If you’re going to have sliced onions, peppers, cucumber etc, then for goodness sake, have this pre-prepared, you don’t want to be hours at this, this is Jackson Pollack sandwich making at its best… and the meat… the meat MUST be wafer thin, you don’t want to do any tearing action or the sandwich will fall apart and bits fall out. Come on, don’t be lazy about this, things MATTER! Then there’s the dressing, this must be home-made, especially the mayo. My utensils ready, apron on, doors locked, slavering cat outside, I set to work…
I raise my rye bread in a salute to you: the Right Honorable John Montagu.
Though it’s been said that you lacked natural eloquence,
as the 4th Earl of Sandwich you created culinary elegance
that we like to call lunch.
Now let us swab the decks with mayo and add last night’s chicken
and leaves of the lettuce and other scraps from the kitchen.
Lord of the Admiralty and friend of the condiment,
I will now have to end my compliment,
as my toast is getting cold. But really, yay you.
As a person with celiac disease, it is hard for me to share your enthusiasm for sandwiches, but I salute your emotion. 🙂
The Earl of Sandwich would surely grant you a gluten-free slice for your salute. Honestly I don’t eat rye myself! The creative mind is a curious thing.
She wanted to invite him out for a bite to eat. Sandwiches, maybe? She hoped he’d be ok with Jimmy John’s. Was that a crummy choice for a first date?
Well, this wasn’t exactly a date. They’d been talking, or really texting pretty regularly now and she wanted to be with him face to face.
“Want to meet me at Jimmy John’s for lunch tomorrow?” she texted.
“Sounds great. I love Jimmy John’s sandwiches. See you around 12?” He texted back.
She felt like a little girl. A wide smile was on her face. She was almost certain that Ted liked her. Or maybe he just liked eating sandwiches.
Here is my story…
I am not sure whether my eyes were half open or half shut but with the bright morning sun glaring off the mirror and directly into my eyes I slammed them shut and waited for the sun to get away from the mirror. Moments later while mirror was devoid of light my mind was in high gear and running away without me so rather than let it get to far ahead of me I popped out bed like toast out of a toaster.
Minutes later I was in the kitchen wolfing down a diet soda and a donut downed a couple of vitamins and headed for the shed where Ole Blue my trusty bicycle was lying in wait to take me for a long ride to the Sandwich Barn where I knew there was a wonderful tasty triple decker salami with cheese on Rye bread had my name on it.
Twenty minutes later with my stomach sounding like a roaring lion I pushed and shoved my way up past a half a dozen people in line ordered my sandwich then moved to get your Sandwich Here window. Ordered a 44 oz. diet pop paid for the pop and my sandwich ran to my favorite table by the window unwrapped the best damn looking sandwich on the face of the earth. Then without warning my stomach let out the biggest growl I’ve ever heard and with hundreds of eyes on me I started to take a bite and wouldn’t you know it I forgot to put my teeth in!
Walking back up to the counter I apologized for disrupting things and asked for a carry out bag. Minutes later with my buns sandwiched on my bike seat I slowly rode Ole Blue the twenty minutes home. After getting home I was so upset I threw the ex-best looking damn sandwich on the floor and stomped out of the room. A couple of minutes later I watched in horror as Crusty our dog lapped up the last of my sandwich.
all that anticipation and he forgot his teeth!
Very funny.
How did he eat the donut?
He sleeps with his teeth in his mouth then eats breakfast then soaks them shaves combs what hair he has left but every once in awhile the telephone rings and runs to answer it forgetting his teeth! He has been known to gum a donut or two as well.
Sandwiched in between his Chemistry textbook and his History textbook, Jeremy had a secret diary where he wrote down in a list everything he ever wanted to do. A sort of high schooler’s bucket list, he supposed, thinking he was too young to have a bucket list. But at the top of the list was “go to chef school”. That would be the bomb. While all his friends aspired to law school, dental school, and a few who aspired to be captains of industry, all Jeremy really wanted to do was be a chef. He had spent a large part of his childhood in the corner diner, the one that looked like a railroad car, except there were no wheels and it was shiny silver with a neon sign that beckoned him like a siren on a rock. “Come eat a sandwich at Joe’s” she seemed to murmer in his ear as the pink and white lights glowed supernaturally in the midday sun. And he would go have a sandwich. And a Coca Cola. The kind in the tall glass with the wide top and narrow bottom, a generous straw jutting out of the bubbling , fizzing soda. It would taste so good. Myrna would come to the table and ask, “What’ll it be, kid?” and then she would tuck her pencil behind her ear and her arms across her chest, hugging the order pad, and give him a look while tilting her head. “Wait, wait, don’t tell me.” He looked up grinning. “Corned beef on rye”, she smiled, “coming right up.” Jeremy didn’t just want to eat that sandwich. He wanted to make that sandwich. He wanted to work at Joe’s Diner when he grew up, and as soon as Joe would let him, he would get a job on the line, and not only would he make sandwiches, he would fry eggs and hashbrowns, create soups that would be so amazing that everyone would line up at Joe’s Diner to try them. Joe would think he was the best chef that ever worked at the Diner and would give him a raise, and then he would marry someone just like Myrna, and open his own diner. Yup. That was on Jeremy’s bucket list, for sure.
Is it me, or is Jeremy dreaming more of Myrna than food? 🙂
Godspeed, Jeremy. Godspeed.
“Sweetie, c’mon, let’s watch TV.” Barb shuffled barefoot
across the floor. Her red hair bounced on her shoulders. “Let’s go! Let’s go!
Let’s go!”
“I’m still eating.”
“Still?”
“I haven’t even started yet, see? Here’s my sandwich, still
intact.” He waved the sandwich in front of her face.
She feigned taking a bite of the air. “I am so bored! I wanna
get this show on the road.”
“Well, I have to eat at the table.” He swiveled around,
grabbing his sandwich. “Oh, no.”
“What?”
“No, no, no…”
“What?”
“Well,” John twisted his hands in his lap. The sandwich, one
bite shy of a whole, was tossed back on his plate. “I think I just threw my
back out lifting a sandwich.”
“Have a sandwich.” I told my son as he rummaged through the cupboards and fridge for the third time in ten minutes. “You know, if you had eaten the dinner your mom made for you, you wouldn’t be so hungry.”
“But I didn’t like it that much.” He half whined in reply.
“Yeah, but that’s what was served to you. You know son, sometimes it’s just about getting the belly full. We can’t make your favorite food every night ’cause if we did, it wouldn’t be you favorite anymore. You’d be sick of it.”
“But, I’m hungry!” he squawked at me.
“I know! So have a sandwich! We’ve got all the stuff, even the meat and cheese you like. You’re growing and I know you’ve got to eat, we’ve got the bread, so get to it!” I hollered back. “Quit complaining or you can just go to bed hungry. You’re lucky I’m even giving in since you barely ate half your dinner!”
“But that doesn’t sound good.” He whined back with a grimace on his face.
“Look!” I barked as I hopped up from my chair and made my way to the kitchen. I grabbed the loaf of bread, half threw it on the counter, yanked the fridge open, pulled out the meat, cheese and mayo and plopped them down next to the bread. “There’s the stuff or there’s the stairs,” I said as I pointed to the foyer “take your pick ’cause the kitchen closes in five minutes!”
“But …”
“No buts about it! That’s it, five minutes, or you’re done! Your choice!”
Some slices of bread with the layers of something in between make a
sandwich. As it tastes well so we do not bother for cookery. Many became sick
as a result.
I respect a slice of bread and love eat the meat so the sandwich should be the delicious but has happened a burden to my digestive system. As the bread so the meat was good nourishment out of themselves, but they were the incompatible. When taken together they created hard to digest so the unhealthy food. Consequently my digestive system refused her consent to my likes…I am sick now. Does that mean my body is more conscious than I? I have looked at the dictionary for the help. Where did I was wrong?
Sandwich … n sumuštinis.
I have the same problem when I eat Taco Bell.
Today would be a special day. I promised myself this, and even though the weather was grey and uninviting, it was going to be my treat.
I got up at 07:00 precisely. I don’t like to be late. It makes me upset when things don’t happen as I expect them to. I got up and brushed my teeth: twenty times in each quarter of my mouth. The dentist told me that when I was just seven years old, and I have done exactly as he said ever since.
I got downstairs and into the kitchen at 07:23, which is a minute later than normal but I have learned to allow myself not to worry too much about that. Mrs Johnson, who is a very nice lady but who gets cross with me sometimes, told me that there are things that I might not be able to control just as I would like, and that I have to learn to live with it.
I don’t agree, I don’t want there to be any surprises. I don’t like surprises.
I set out the cutlery on the table, with all of the pieces in their right places. One day I couldn’t find the small spoon for my tea cup, and it spoiled the whole day for me. No such problems today, though. This will be a special day.
I am having a Day Out today. This will mean making a packed lunch to take with me, as I won’t be at home at 13:30 which is when I usually have lunch. This is a Change, which Mrs Johnson says is a good thing, though I’m not so sure. But it will be an adventure.
I have my breakfast, and then make up my lunch. I had to buy extra things specially when I went shopping yesterday, because my normal lunch wouldn’t work very well as a picnic. So I had to think of food that I would be able to carry with me, and eat without making a mess. Of course, I would have to have lunch at the right time, and I might not be in control of exactly where I am at that time. This means that the lunch I make must be capable of being eaten anywhere.
I looked up some ideas on the internet yesterday, before I went shopping. I feel OK, even though today will be a special day.
I got myself ready, and walked down to the station to catch the train. I am going to the seaside. I don’t normally like going to the seaside, there are too many people there. But today should be alright: it’s February, and I expect I will be all right.
I found a seat on the train next to the window. Nobody came to sit next to me, which was good. I hate having to talk to strange people on the train. The train went on for a long time.
I looked out of the window: the train had arrived at Sandwich station. I opened my bag and took out my bread roll – it was time for lunch.
Great characterization, Alex. I share similar qualities so as I read I was saying in my head, “Yes! Yes!”
I’m not quite *that* extreme, though.
Glad to hear it resonated for you!
Here we go, 10 minutes straight:
I don’t eat sandwiches. It’s not because I don’t like them.
I love them. Actually, what person doesn’t like sandwiches? Bread is
incredible. The wrong bread is terrible, but the right bread, for your mood, of
course, is perfect. Nothing could be more perfect. Like right now, right now
I’d like to have a sandwich on a bagel. Yes. A sesame seed bagel, toasted, with bacon, egg, and cheese on it. The egg would be just a little runny-not so runny that it was impossible to eat, but runny enough that things get a little messy. And the cheese would be American. American cheese gets a bad rap. It’s the fattiest, the most unoriginal, go-to cheese there is. It’s the America of
cheeses. But I love it. And you probably love it too, you’re just too ashamed
to admit it, because no one is supposed to “love” American cheese. No
self-respecting cheese lover likes American. At least not out loud. That would
be like genuinely chanting U-S-A at a bar while you watch sports. American
cheese is the frat boy of cheeses. People would look at you and say “what a
douche, that guy loves American cheese”, while secretly wishing they had the
courage, the lack of self-censorship to chant AMERICAN CHEESE alongside you.
Anyway. It’s a great cheese. And I’m not afaird to say it. Do I want a slab of
American cheese on a cheese board at a cocktail party where I’ve squeezed
myself into a black dress that’s uncomfortable to move even an inch in, that
I’ve paid way too much for? No, I don’t. American cheese isn’t a stuffy party
cheese. It’s a complimentary cheese. A cheese that works well with others. A
cheese that becomes more powerful when placed with a well-cooked (runny but not TOO runny) egg, some salty bacon, and a nicely toasted sesame seed bagel. Or a cheese that melts perfectly and effortlessly onto a summer burger at a BBQ (two slices on mine, and medium-rare, please).
Anyway. I don’t eat sandwiches often, even though I love
them, and American cheese, because they make you fat. It’s just true. You can’t just live your life eating sandwiches all the time and not expect to get fat. Unless, of course, you’re eating a sandwich on low-carb bread, with fake vegan cheese, or perhaps some lame hummus spread and roasted vegetables. Which, of course, we all pretend to like, because we’re supposed to be into “healthy substitutes”, but really, we don’t. so I don’t eat sandwiches. Because if you’re not eating the right sandwich, a real sandwich, then there’s not point in eating a sandwich at all. Just go eat a wrap. Or better yet, the ingredients of the sandwich without the bread (BUMMER, but I do it all the time).
Tyler looked across the lunchroom table at the line of children sitting on the opposite bench, each with handful of white bread stuffed with something.
They are totally sandwiched he thought as he took a big crunching bite of apple.
“What are you staring at?” asked a girl with a carrot colored pony tail sitting next to him.
“Nothin’” he replied, “Do you like apples?”
“Yeah, but I don’t want any of that one.”
“Well, I wasn’t offering anyway.”
“Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so. You’re not in my class.”
“What grade are you in?”
“5th, Mrs. Scott’s.”
“I’m in 4th. Mr. Stucey. I just moved here. You want half a granola bar?”
“Nah, I can’t eat wheat. Makes me barf.”
“Really, that’s too bad.”
“I get by. I like a lotta other stuff. So it’s not really that bad.”
“You mean if you took one little bite of my sandwich, you’d hurl.”
“Well I’m not doin’ it to prove it, that’s for sure.”
Wendell walked down the stairs to his project. The dog that Frank had brought over to have stuffed sat on the workbench. Wendell had finished it but couldn’t remember the dog’s name – Peppy or Puppy or something like that.
He reached for the dog and wondered again what it would be like to have such a little dog running around the house underfoot. He and Lillibeth didn’t have pets. She hadn’t wanted a cat, he thought he could get used to a cat, but she said she didn’t like cats. They didn’t need you. If she was going to have an animal around, she told him, she wanted one that would want her as well.
But who really wanted a little yapping dog like this? He wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t called Frank to come over. Maybe because he couldn’t remember its name. Wendell recalled the times that Frank had come to the house, breathless, because the dog had gotten out of the yard again and he was chasing it down for Maryann. That’s why Frank wanted the dog stuffed. Maryann had died last year – some kind of female cancer – and Frank wanted to keep the dog longer after it died, too.
Wendell listened as Lillibeth’s footsteps faded toward the outside and then shortly returned to the house. He smelled bacon and listened as his wife opened and closed cabinets and drawers, clinked dishes and flatware, humming in her kitchen. Then there was the fragrance of bread toasting and shortly she called down to him “Wendell, lunch is ready. Come on up.”
He set the dog back on the bench and walked upstairs to the kitchen sink where he washed his hands before he joined his wife at the table. He smiled as he looked at his favorite lunch, a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich, made with tomatoes fresh from their garden.
I hate bread.
Want to know why?
Because bread is the epitome of deceit, second only to corn.
I’m going to tell you the reason in two paragraphs, but first let me tell you a story.
Two years ago I got really fat. Everyone told me to stop eating rice. So instead of my usual “unhealthy” meals of rice and a viand, I ate tuna sandwiches.
What happened was this: I felt deprived, hungry, and fat.
Here’s why: Because bread is made from flour, and flour is made from grains. Our digestive systems don’t agree with grains, which is why they make us fat.
And so my friends, I hope this encourages you to consider quitting bread and rebelling against the status quo.
Your writing made me laugh! I enjoy how you just say it. Quick, factual, to the point. So sorry though, I love my sandwiches with bread. 🙂 I eat less of them, but I can’t give them up completely.
haha! there’s no right or wrong, only awareness of what you’re getting yourself into 🙂
I can’t decide whether it is a sad or a
joyous thing that I’m eating sandwiches for dinner, again. There’s a stern,
grown up part of me who says that staying home and eating eggs in bread for
dinner is something that young, reckless students do. People who don’t have the
money for real food. People who don’t
have social lives. People who don’t care about their health. Stern-me lectures
that I should be eating vegetables with every meal. Should be dressing in
clothes suitable to a person with a successful career – how you act is what you
become.
The other part of me, the part that never
wants to grow up, is gleeful and grinning that she’s won again. Eating
sandwiches for dinner! It’s a perfect way to annoy the grown-ups. And so yummy.
Who cares about stinky vegetables anyway? Far better to get sticky eggy
fingers, lick the dribbled yolk off the plate, brush the crumbs onto the couch.
Child-me doesn’t care for mirrors, doesn’t see anything wrong with wearing
track-pants and oversized jumpers – clothes serve a functional purpose, to keep
warm, and nothing else.
Curled up on the couch, watching mindless tv,
child-me is happy. Content, and sleepy. What else is needed in this life, a
warm place to rest, a full belly, surely that’s enough?
Your post was the one that drew me in to find out what the prompt was. I enjoy the humor inside the tension of your “yous.”
Thanks! Sandwiches inspire several emotions for me!
I just came across this blog today, so I am a bit late with the “sandwich”. Here it is:
Sandwiches
Every day he makes me a sandwich. I don’t know why, I never asked for one.
But he keeps making them.
Not always the same kind, and not always at the same time of day. Once I left the room to go to the bathroom, and when I came back there was a sandwich sitting on my chair, beside the book I was reading.
Ham and Swiss.
Once I woke up late at night. The house was quiet, the clock ticking in the hall. The cat was sitting beside me, alert and interested. There was a sandwich sitting beside the bed.
Peanut butter and banana.
I don’t see him making the sandwiches, and I don’t see him delivering them. He is as silent making sandwiches as he is at all other times. I rarely see him, straight on. I usually only catch glimpses of him, leaving a room that I am entering. It is quiet.
Yesterday there was a Reuben in the mailbox. Today a BLT sat waiting on my keyboard. I don’t know what sandwich tomorrow will bring, but I know there will be one, and that I will eat it. I eat all of them.
He shows me he loves me with his sandwiches. I show I love him by eating them.
Sandwich.
My mouth waters at the idea of taking one bite of a deli-fresh turkey with provolone cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, light vinegar, mustard on multi-grain bread sandwich. I’ve been counting down the days until I would return to the States and eat my delightful lunch. And now, I am almost there!
Of course, it’s not as if Tianjin has no import stores. It’s not like I couldn’t take a
fifteen-minute bike ride to the Korean-style shopping center and stop in at
Subway. But I have come to realize that the Chinese version of “Subway,” though they may have the brand-stamped napkins, and the correctly labeled cups, does not fulfill my desire for a know-the-meat-is-real turkey sandwich.
As I enthusiastically disembark from the plane, I wave my thankful goodbye to the pilots and flight attendants, and begin to imagine my sandwich. I can almost feel the multi-grains slide across my lips, I can hear the crunch of the pickles as my teeth begin to bite down. As the passport line speeds up, I can smell the harmonious combination of vinegar and mustard. I almost miss claiming my baggage as I meditate on the delight of tasting real, fresh, turkey on my taste buds. And then, I walk out the door of the airport, searching the road for my family.
I see their smiling faces, but their hands are empty.
They don’t have my sandwich.
Memories. The last of the bread was dry. Frustrating. Dug out the peanut butter, the jelly. Slam. Should have went out to eat, but we didn’t have the money. Sigh. I spread the paste over the bread. Rip. I left the spoon in the peanut butter jar because I forgot to do the jelly first. Clang. The jelly clumped all in the center and wouldn’t spread. Sink. The edge of the bread were plain. Smash. It didn’t work. Then, she laughed. I looked at her crossly. “What?!” I looked down at a mangled and pathetic sandwich. Fling. A glob of jelly landed on my arm. Smile. She smiled behind her spoon. Memories are a sandwich of peanut butter and ecstasy.
“time to go!” I burst into the room, startling Clover.
“not now!” she yelled at me.
I frowned and walked towards her. “what are you doing?” I asked.
“lunch.”
I made a face. “gross, what kind of sandwich is that?”
“tuna-fish and peanut butter.” she told me.
“what?!?” my face changed from “gross” to “about to vomit.” “why would you eat that?!?”
she sighed. “because I like it.”
Clover went over to the cardboard and pulled out a jar of dill pickles.
now I was utterly disgusted. “don’t tell me you’re going to put those on, too, are you?”
“ok, I won’t.” Clover said, then proceeded to stack the pickles on.
“hey what’s taking you so long?” Jason poked his head through the door. “what it that?” he asked when he saw the sandwich.
“Clover’s dog food.” I joked.
Clover growled and through the sandwich at my face, it hit it’s target.