I’ve got a couple things on my mind today, not related to one another.
For one thing, I need a solution to the problem of my baloney sandwich coming apart. This happens to me every time. The baloney is cemented to both slices of bread with mustard, but where the meat meets the meat, it is very slippery, and when I pick it up to take a bite, all of a sudden I’ve got slip-‘n-slide going on, two pieces of sandwich heading in different directions, and mustard all over me.
The other thing is I didn’t have time yesterday to remark upon it being October 13, my father’s birthday. He would have been 98 years old (if he hadn’t died in 1978).
Well, there might be some commonality here after all. My dad liked a good sandwich, which, incidentally, the way he pronounced it sounded more like sanwidge.
My father's idea of a sandwich was a one-inch stack of meat between two pieces of bread. That's all. No mustard, no mayonnaise, no lettuce, no nothin' else. Bread and meat, and lots of it. One day he told my mother, who made lunches for us to carry to work and school every day, that he wished she’d put more meat on his sandwich. She promised to do better, and the next day when he sat down for lunch with the fellas at work, he found two thick slabs of left-over meatloaf with a slice of bread between them.
Maybe that was the original sanwidge.
You never wanted to tempt my mother, especially when it came to food. I once complained that her peanut butter sandwiches had all the peanut butter in the middle and none around the edges, so that I ended up eating plain bread crust. My next sandwich had gobs of peanut butter all around the edges and nothing in the middle.
If I ever open a restaurant, the lunch menu will say:
SANWIDGES
Perimeter Peanut Butter
Meatloaf with Bread
Sliding Lunch Meat
For one thing, I need a solution to the problem of my baloney sandwich coming apart. This happens to me every time. The baloney is cemented to both slices of bread with mustard, but where the meat meets the meat, it is very slippery, and when I pick it up to take a bite, all of a sudden I’ve got slip-‘n-slide going on, two pieces of sandwich heading in different directions, and mustard all over me.
The other thing is I didn’t have time yesterday to remark upon it being October 13, my father’s birthday. He would have been 98 years old (if he hadn’t died in 1978).
Well, there might be some commonality here after all. My dad liked a good sandwich, which, incidentally, the way he pronounced it sounded more like sanwidge.
My father's idea of a sandwich was a one-inch stack of meat between two pieces of bread. That's all. No mustard, no mayonnaise, no lettuce, no nothin' else. Bread and meat, and lots of it. One day he told my mother, who made lunches for us to carry to work and school every day, that he wished she’d put more meat on his sandwich. She promised to do better, and the next day when he sat down for lunch with the fellas at work, he found two thick slabs of left-over meatloaf with a slice of bread between them.
Maybe that was the original sanwidge.
You never wanted to tempt my mother, especially when it came to food. I once complained that her peanut butter sandwiches had all the peanut butter in the middle and none around the edges, so that I ended up eating plain bread crust. My next sandwich had gobs of peanut butter all around the edges and nothing in the middle.
If I ever open a restaurant, the lunch menu will say:
SANWIDGES
Perimeter Peanut Butter
Meatloaf with Bread
Sliding Lunch Meat
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