I remember the day I graduated from the school of peanut butter and jelly and made the transition to cold cuts. I was in Mrs. Brummitt's PM kindergarten class, and the sandwich contained Oscar Mayer bologna, lettuce, and mayo. My mom made it for me. And I remember liking the crisp of the lettuce and the creamy mayo and the meaty bologna, and coming home and telling Mom to please make it again.
Things have changed since my kindergarten days in 1989. For example, lunch time no longer includes a choice between chocolate milk or white milk, and I no longer wear ruffly black and white polka-dot socks. And yet, some things remain the same: my height, for the most part, and my sandwiches. No, I'm not still bringing bologna-and-mayo sandwiches made my Mom. More like turkey-ham-mustard-everythingelseinthefridge sandwiches made by Murdo. And on those glorious sandwich days, I'll come home and ask him to please make it again.
Sometimes, when I'm sleeping, Murdo steals my camera and takes pictures of the sandwiches.*
And sometimes, when I'm eating, I'll stop and stare at the sandwich and think things like, "There's something in here that I really like. What is that? Celery? There's actually celery in this sandwich? This is the best sandwich ever."
Other days, I'll hop around in my desk chair a bit because he added radishes. Or a baggie of Rainier cherries. Or a pickle, wrapped lovingly in tin foil.
Yes, when I'm sitting at a desk and staring at a computer all day, these are the kinds of things that excite me. Or any day, for that matter, because a sandwich made especially for one person by another is certainly something to get excited about. Hopping excited. Each bite is a surprise, each layer carefully constructed, the sogginess factor calculated and solved. It's enough to make me forget I'm no longer in kindergarten anymore and that I'm all grown up (well, kind of). It's just radishes and Rainier cherries and the simple joys of life.
*Photos of sandwich assembly taken by Murdo.