Super Sandwich

When I was a kid,

I got stage fright often,

overwhelmed by choices, people, crowded spaces...

But it was at family gatherings I exercised the most caution.

Dress to impress, clean your room,

put games and puzzles and toys away,

be polite, say "please," and "thank you,"

always so much to do every visit or holiday.

It was a weekend with Grandma and Grandpa like any other,

over Easter, just a few days, I believe I was 12 years old.

We told them "bring nothing," we cook and handle the food,

but they couldn't show up empty-handed, despite what they were told.

They were coming up from Long Island,

so of course, they brought bagels,

poppy and sesame seed, everything, plain and egg,

at least a dozen, sometimes two, whatever they could finagle.

Grandpa had a sweet tooth,

so they never forgot to bring desserts,

from a bakery in Amityville they swore by,

"the finest fudge cake and cream puffs around," they'd assert.

But during this particular visit,

we decided to make sandwiches for lunch.

What were the options for sandwich construction?

You name it, it was piled on the table to munch and crunch.

I had never built a Scooby-Doo sandwich before,

though I'd always wanted to give it a try.

I thought I was prepared to let my creativity run wild,

but the sea of cold cuts and condiments in front of me made me want to cry.

Where do I even start?

What combinations would taste good?

What the heck is "liverwurst," and "olive loaf?"

So many questions, but this was still an assignment I understood.

I didn't want to slap some ham, lettuce and mustard together

between two slices of white bread and call it a day.

Sure, it'd be a delicious and safe choice,

but that just didn't seem like the right play.

I don't know what possessed me to try something new,

to start constructing the unlikely hero.

Maybe it was the cloud of deli odor hanging in the air,

or maybe it was just a false sense of ego.

I felt like I had to create the biggest, bestest sandwich,

a unique amalgamation of dairy, produce, meat and sauce.

Something I'd never tried before and could potentially replicate

if it actually tasted good and wasn't a complete loss.

So I started with the bread,

spread some butter on two slices of cracked wheat.

I've always found cracked wheat to be my go-to breakfast/lunch bread,

doesn't get soggy easily and responds well to heat.

Next I added tomatoes, onion and lettuce,

I mixed and matched with Iceberg and Romaine,

a few dollops of Yellow and Dijon mustard later,

and the possibilities were flooding my brain.

Next I added a couple slices of American,

then mozzarella and cheddar,

more lettuce, more mustard, then some pickle slices,

sweet gherkins, dill, bread and butter.

Then it was on to the meats,

oven-roasted turkey, grilled chicken, honey-glazed ham,

bologna, liverwurst and pepperoni.

No olive loaf, the smell and consistency reminded me too much of spam.

A few more slices of lettuce and tomato

and mustard to help balance all the flavors.

And finally, last but not least, a handful of potato chips for some crunch.

Now this was a sandwich I wanted to savor.

My brother and sister stared at my creation from across the table,

eyes wide, either excited or scared for me.

My dad gave me a thumbs up, my mom said "What is that?"

And my grandparents both chuckled, "Well, take a bite and see!"

My teeth sank into the bread

as I tucked into my first colossal bite.

Beforehand, I wasn't sure if I should take a small nibble or chow down,

but go big or go home, right?

The room held its breath as I chewed

through layers of deli meat, mustard and pickle.

"What do you think, kiddo?" Dad asked, amused by the sandwich stack.

I just smiled and kept chewing, the delightful taste nothing short of a miracle.