Why my Mom's Sandwiches Really Were the Best

Monday's ordinary thing is the sandwich. I just took the last bite of my avocado, pickle, and lettuce sandwich on toasted Udi's bread, reminiscing how sandwiches bring me comfort. So portable and tidy and satisfying. I appreciate them all the more since I rarely have them now, having become gluten sensitive.

The main reason I love sandwiches, though, is that they came into my life at the same time as my mom. I was eleven years old, used to haphazard meals, living off-and-on with a mother overwhelmed by her duties. As I said, that was Mother - but this was Mom. She would present the most delicious rectangles of grilled cheese or baloney or tuna, halved with a cleaver for a perfect edge. I was amazed.

Sandwiches told me the world could be managed. They said, "Look! You're hungry: eat. By the way, someone really cares about you."

They told me things didn't have to be unwieldy and gloppy: you could set them straight. You could slice up what you needed and put away the rest. You could spread goodness upon your life, without fear. You could do things, go places, have a picnic.

Like a gift in a package, a sandwich can surprise you. A person, too. Thanks, Mom, for hundreds of sandwich banquets, countless hugs, and your way of putting things right.

Write about sandwiches. Write about Mom. Write about a Mom sandwich! (Well, maybe not.) In any case, share what you write...

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