I read. I feel for the pulse. I worry. I love. I am finding a lot to read about the pain, damage, dishonesty, greed and cruelty surrounding adoption.
am I a mother? I do not know. What do other mothers say? Could I feel more strongly about the person I call my son? Another unanswerable question. Guessing yes. And then no. My heart swells and swells. Thank you to those who gave me a kid to care for.
twenty four years ago my husband and I joyfully, beyond measure!, transported a beautiful baby from the airport to our home. I believed then and believe now that we were not replacing the people who created, birthed and, – must have, how could they not have – loved this child. I believed then and believe now that no one can be loved too much.
perhaps adoptive parents are a small piece of collateral damage. Hanging on so tight, letting go so loose, loving hard and expecting so little. Probably, for me, expecting too much.
was it wrong, what we did? More and more I wonder. A sandwich analogy seems frivolous. On the other hand, food is sustenance, as is love. We loved and love him so much, this person who is not ours or mine or anyone’s other than his own. Open-faced it is. We did our best to lay a foundation with hopes he would fly, open faced, open.
Out doing errands trying to be in the now and enjoy my comfortable car, access to almost any food imaginable, quality sound surrounding me in the Honda capsule and general fantastic life. Doing errands alone is boring. And, to be frank, lonely. Sad even.
Remembering errand-doing with my mother in Appleton, Wisconsin when I was too small to be useful, every stop so exciting. Maybe Lester Balliet at the coal company office would pull a nickel from my ear. Maybe I could – this one time – talk my mother into not stepping on a single crack in the square tile linoleum floor at the A&P, provided she let me come in with her. Maybe she would leave me to wait in the A&P parking lot, hunched on the floor of the VW bug, super scratchy carpeting tearing up my tender skin, pretending I was important, left behind to be kept safe.
Remembering errand-doing with my mother in Fairfax County, Virginia, when I was old enough to be useful, we were purposeful and adventurous, exploring a new locale, so far from the midwest and so foreign. She was brave and determined. We stopped for lunch. I felt – and maybe my mother did too – a tiny bit exotic and as though I was growing my sophistication quotient. Steak in a Sack. Oh, that sounds so awful now. We are not new here anymore and we are suspicious of silly names. Steak in a Sack was thinly sliced, seared beef in pita – delicious – unlike anything we had ever seen or tasted or even heard of and I remember a slight sense of reverance when walking into the wafting scent of meat. Pita was new, exciting, warm, tender, and yummy.
Doing errands now, alone, I go for efficiency and wonder why I think that speeding up will make time go more slowly. It will not. This time, this one time, closing in on the German Gourmet, I pull in. The German Gourmet is not for bargain hunters, praise be to Odin.
Okay, okay, I did eat in my car, but only because they do not have tables. Why do they not have tables, I wonder. And why do I not drive the Honda CRV with the picnic table option? That picnic table option is a real thing.
It is. A mecca. They offer a punch card. And holy cow look at the options on the order sheet. Did somebody say Tyrol Cabbage? Remoulade? Curry Ketchup?
The errand-doing was okay. The sandwich was good. The Muenchner, because it included an unknown to me ingredient, leberkase. So good. Could a person simply slow down for a sandwich mid-errand. Yes, yes and yes. Thanks be to Odin.
Addendum: Thanks be to kramalot who is authorized to order and eat sausage at any turn.
I will be in Omaha soon, a first visit to Nebraska, and understand that the Reuben sandwich might have originated there. There is no disputing the brilliance of the Reuben’s construction. Frankly, I cannot imagine the path to the Reuben but will take a stab at it.
Corned beef and rye begets
Corned beef on rye with cheese begets
Corned beef on rye with cheese and Russian dressing begets
Corned beef on rye with cheese and Russian dressing. And sauerkraut? Huh? Sauerkraut? No lie, sauerkraut is delicious but, I swear, someone had sauerkraut in excess (of course because…cabbage) and thought it could be hidden behind CORNED BEEF, RYE, CHEESE AND RUSSIAN DRESSING because, without a doubt, a GIANT Louis Vuitton bag could be hidden behind CORNED BEEF, RYE, CHEESE AND RUSSIAN DRESSING. The bag would be eaten – lock, stock and barrel – almost without notice, so yeah, let’s unload a mess o’ kraut while we’re at it. And the world pivoted on its axis.
Booeymonger – speaking of being unable to imagine a path, I cannot imagine the path to that name, Booeymonger. Must sleuth. The original Booeymonger – tiny, on a side-street, open very late, oh-so-intriguing to a wandering teen – had the Guruben on it’s menu, a sandwich name on par with the Teuben (a Reuben in a casing, sausage-style at Hot Doug’s in Chicago), as well as the Vegetarrorist at Cafe Clementine (so clever, so not-scary when it was conceived, funny, so funny, and now not, damnit!) Booeymonger, to this day, lists the Patty Hearst on its menu. How now, provolow? The Patty Hearst but no Guruben? What wokeness has got by me?
I am still thinking of Emitt Rhodes and still spinning his record, spinning his songs into the still air of our home. “You must live till you die. You must feel to be alive.” Which begs all sorts of questions concerning semantics. What is it to feel? How does one define being alive? Sentience, what is it good for? Absolutely something!
For whom does the bread toast? It toasts for thee. Sandwich people (everyone!), whether one feels the need to make toast for oneself or a toast steward, aka cook, is dispatched, for love or money, to do it for you, it toasts for thee. Toast, the Maillard effect, the warming, browning, transformational process of heat waves on plant sugars is the kickstarter, catalyst, miracle of cooking.
I feel it. The bread feels it. The toaster basks in sentient satisfaction and the triple hit of generosity – anticipating the act, the toasting itself, then reflection on toast buttered, or not, and eaten with gezellig.
Emitt Rhodes reappeared via WOWD with his song Fresh As a Daisy. Now his album is back in the house, thanks to ebay, and Live Till You Die spins. My dad is 98. My mom is 95. We have been advised – thank you Warren Zevon – to enjoy every sandwich. Every Sandwich. Can one? Every sandwich? I think yes. Enjoy every sandwich until you die. That’s my version of living. Should one leave a mess in the kitchen – bread unwrapped, tomato scraps not composted, mustard smeared spreader – when the reaper arrives, so be it. Bravo!
A sandwich cover can be many things according to the google. What is meant by Emmit Rhodes’ sandwich cover, I do not know, and would like to. Could I call him now, I would, to ask about sandwiches, sandwich covers and to tell him how much I love his music.
When I die I hope to leave, well, nothing with which to reckon – a very flawed approach to the finish line. Competitive runners, cyclists, anyone moving forward with vigor, must pour it on through the finish line, I have been told and see the reasoning. It seems natural to slow as one nears the end. Slow down, look around, access, review, adjust expectations, do a bit of tidying. I do know that life is not a race. I know, I know. Yet there is something to be said – everything – to be all in until we are not.
Welcome to the Lunch Encounter, a blog devoted to the mighty sandwich, with particular focus on American regional specialties.
I am Lisa Cherkasky, a Washington, DC-based food stylist, writer and cook. To see some of my work take a look at my website: http://www.lisacherkasky.com
The Lunch Encounter 