Grandpa's Sandwich

     When I was a boy, my grandfather would make me lunch. He was partial to sandwiches and made a wide variety. 


   Deviled Ham 
     
     When it came to deviled ham he was a purist. Fresh rye, usually a sourdough or 'Jewish' rye, and meat spread. No mayo. No veg. That is all.


   Tuna


     No one ever called it 'tunafish' in our house and we were suspicious of those who did. Rye or sourdough, tuna in water, usually Albacore, diced onion, maybe some pickle juice, little mayo, bingo. You add corn chips to that, and you are set my friend.
   There were additions of tomato and lettuce when available, and on cold days, melted cheddar. 


   Sardine


     That's right. I was regularly sent to elementary school with sardine sandwiches in my pail. I thought nothing of it. My peers were rare to trade me. 
   Always rye. Little mayo, sliced onion, red. Let me reassure you, they are delicious.


     You may have noticed, no peanut butter and jelly. That's right, NO peanut butter and jelly! You want that shit, go ask your grandmother to make it.


     No matter the sandwich, they were always, perfect. Just the right amount, of everything. I never wanted for anything else when I had a sandwich from Grandpa. I never added or would subtract from their ingredients. I ate them throughout my childhood, and knew them like a friend. When I was older (and foolish) I wanted to make my own sandwich. 
   I had eaten thousands of them. I'd watched him a million times. I knew exactly how he did it.   But that's not what I did.


     No, I was somehow going to improve upon the perfect sandwich of my grandfather. A feat of culinary hubris so bold, I knew the results would be impressive.
   First! I would push the limits of the old man's sandwich theories. Mustard is good, yes, but what about a shit ton of it?!? Oh, he'd never thought of that, had he? 
   But it was too much, it ruined the sandwich. I was way off. A sandwich isn't great by its condiments, please, I needed the true essence of sandwich, the meat! But it was just a bunch of extra meat. It was too dry. It just wasn't right. I just started buying pre-made sandwiches.


     Year's later, with kid's of my own, I have returned to the art of sandwich making. I don't try and reinvent the wheel anymore, I just make sandwiches. With a little bit of what's needed, and nothing that isn't. And they're perfect.


     


     
     

"Ode to Nantucket"

There once was a man from Seattle,
Who listened to nothing but prattle.
  From blowhards and fools
  with nothing to do,
Than to live like Republican cattle.

"Raised in L.A."

     I live in the NorthWest now, and I guess that being raised in different parts of the country makes a huge difference in your upbringing. People out here are nice. I mean they are actually nice, not some affectation that you put on when you want something or have less power or money than the person you're talking to, I mean they're nice just to be nice. I know, weird huh? 
   I guess they were raised that way, to be considerate, empathetic, to care about the feelings of others. I wasn't raised here. I was raised in L.A.


     In Southern California it's a little different. When I was growing up, the only thing you did between graphic slanders of you peer's mothers, (preferably engaged in some sort of sexual act) was to wait until your friends made even the slightest miscalculation in judgement or speech, and mercilessly slaughter them verbally; the focus on humiliation and thus hugely entertaining to any and all not targeted. 
   It was an unspoken competition, that everyone was entered in, but only a few enjoyed. I liked it. It was funny, and good training for the real world, or so I thought. It's good training for L.A. out there it's pretty rough, best to have your wits about you. I don't think anybody took it too seriously, although it could get heated at times. But if you couldn't take it, it was as if you were admitting to being a wuss. Pussies were not tolerated in my neighborhood. You were either one of the boys, or an outsider, a fate worse than death. So, at the risk of your mother's good name, you hung out, and took it, and hopefully held your own with those soulless, cold-hearted bastards. 
   Thing about soulless, cold-hearted bastards is, you hang around them long enough, you get the jacket.


     Well, it's cold up here, I needed a jacket, so I brought the only one I had. I didn't think everybody up here was going to be so goddamned sensitive. Where was their sense of humor? Didn't they realize how incredibly witty I was? What are you? A fag?


     Yeah, they didn't like that either. Somehow, 'fag' now referred to a gay person, and was not politically correct. Or funny. I know, totally rocked my worldview.
   If you were called anything, when we were kids, you were called a fag. About a million times a day. The fun we had with those names, fag, dick shiner, butt humper. You remember 'butt humper'?!?   Oh the laughs...
   Well instead of being fond childhood memories, these people saw them as improper, epithets, derogatory. What a bunch of fucken sissies.  Sorry.  This is gonna be hard.


     So, in the interest of being good natured, and because I prefer people not to hate me or think I'm Republican, I sought to calm my inner beast, and try to civilize myself and 'be nice'.  It's fucken way harder than it sounds.


     First of all, people are fucken stupid. Now I know, that that may come off as a tad judgemental, or slightly intolerant, but have you talked to any people lately? See, that's what I'm talking about. People give you so many reasons to dislike them that most of the time my head is swirling with disgust and the only way to relieve the pressure is to blast them with both barrels. Figuratively speaking.
   But I have somewhat curbed this compulsion that I have to instantly take someone's inventory and cast down my judgement and disdain upon them. It's a process. I read somewhere that all judgement comes from the ego. That really, it is only our fear of our own shortcomings that leads us to judge others. I know, I thought it was bullshit too. But I guess it couldn't hurt to try.


     So if you see me around town, with a pained smile on my face, don't worry, I'm alright. I'm just trying to be nice.