Actually, it’s just ONE thing. I’ve been making Sam the same turkey and pepperjack cheese sandwich on Orowheat Oatnut bread with one teaspoon of mayonnaise every day for six years, but last Wednesday, for whatever reason, I FORGOT TO CUT IT IN HALF. I just wrapped it in wax paper, maneuvered it into a quart-size ziploc bag and sent him to work with a whole sandwich, a bag of baby carrots and a nice yogurt.
I first get wind that something’s amiss when Sam calls a few hours later from work and says, “Is everything okay?” Sure. Why? “Are you feeling all right?” I’m FINE. “Are you mad at me?” Of course not. WHAT’S GOING ON?
“You didn’t cut my sandwich today.”
Wow. If a momentary kitchen misstep is all it takes to propel Sam to doubt my love, my health or my sanity, from this day forward that damn sandwich gets sawed into triangle fourths with ruffled toothpicks and a cloth napkin. Thank you for reading this, and bon appetit.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
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