Sandwich nights

Sunday night was "Sandwich Night" in our house back in the days when my parents were still together. It was like a lot of family traditions in that I don't remember how it started. It just was--here was a Sunday night, time for sandwiches. My dad hardly ever cooked, but for some reason he was put in charge of making the sandwiches.

My dad was a true sandwich artist. I'm sorry to admit that Mom's sandwiches couldn't hold a candle to his. Her idea of a sandwich was two pieces of stale bread, a leaf of lettuce, a couple of tomatoes, mayo, and bologna. My dad, on the other hand, had a complete sandwich-making technique, you might even call it a philosophy. He would make each person's sandwich according to their specifications. Mayo or mustard? Turkey or bologna? I would ask my sisters and report back to him. So many times over the years I would watch him make them in the kitchen, completely fascinated by the intricate process. On a big wooden cutting board he would chop lettuce into very fine slices along with tomatoes, onions, and pickles. Sometimes he would add mushrooms or avocado, even alfalfa sprouts if Mom had bought them that week. He would toast fresh rolls spread with butter in a pan on the stove and melt pieces of cheese with them. He would spread mayo and/or mustard onto the bread. Then he would layer all the vegetables and meat onto one half of the toasted bread and sprinkle salt and pepper over the whole thing. Ever the perfectionist, my dad even had a technique for that: hold the salt and pepper shakers high above the sandwich, he explained to me, that way the salt and pepper gets evenly distributed.

When he would finish making my sandwich, Dad would bring it out to me on a plate. He would dress it up fancy the way a restaurant would--the sandwich cut diagonally in half, toothpicks with olives holding it together, chips set between the two halves. It always tasted fantastic, with just the right mix of vinegar, cheese, salt and pepper. Even now the idea of it makes my mouth water. Every Sunday, my mom and dad and sisters and I would sit and eat our sandwiches on TV trays and watch "60 Minutes" together. Those were good times, as close to perfect as I remember in our family. I really can't explain to you how much I miss those nights. Somehow it just seemed like all was right with the world back then. I'd give almost anything if there were a way to get that back.