Jim Hare classic posts Archives

The Family Sandwich - In Memory of...

1998

I have just returned from a trip to California and a visit with my folks.
It was a strain. My mother has taken to her bed and seems to be just
waiting for the end. She is a tough old bird. Who can tell how long
she will linger. There was a time when I could travel to see them on
any weekend, but added distance and the demands of my own life
these days seem to conspire to discourage these trips. Such visits
are sadly infrequent.

When I am there, I see the way my father has taken over all duties so
my mother can spend her days abed with no worry. His loving care
includes a scenic tour in the car each morning about ten AM. It is
really the only activity she has, and he knows it is essential in
keeping her alive. From the back seat, I watch pretty much the same
countryside go by as I accompany them, and I listen to the predictable
remarks of my father, the earnest tour guide, as the farms move past
my window. I see the pain seated stoically in the corners of his eyes
as he holds his world together by telling us about the sites of local
history we have seen and heard many times before.

“Where that barn is,” he says once again, pointing, “there used to be a
stage coach stop there. And up the hill there was where they used to
tan the hides of all the cattle for a hundred miles around. Then
they’d take them down to the bay and put them on wooden ships for
market.”

Around the next bend is where we will hear about an old mission. I
sit quietly in the back, lost in wondering what this place looked like
in those early California days. If my father has taught me anything, it
is to endure. It is no use to attempt conversation with my parents in
the car. Their hearing impairments and their ever more fragile grasp
of recent memory combine to turn any discourse we attempt into a
labored and halting imitation of “Who’s On First?” I long to have
Sharon with me. Her laughter buoys me when I could easily drown in
sentiment.

Sometimes the ride ends with a stop at MacDonalds. It has become a
ritual for Dad to pick up two little teensy burgers at the drive-up
window and take them home to dress them up with cheese, pickle,
tomato, and onion. He takes great pride at this frugal maneuver
which transforms two micro-burgers into lusty cheeseburgers for
less than two dollars! I have found that it is far easier to eat one of
these than to annoy him trying to explain about whole food and my
diet. He is deeply suspicious of any health ideas that did not
originate with him, and he guards his opinions with fervor. That’s
OK, I have adopted what I imagine is the Asian perspective, and I
acquiesce to him in all matters these days. He’s made it into his
eighties and deserves it. It has worked out very well and it costs me
little. (Unless one of those E. coli burgers gives me mad cow disease).

But on this day he asks my mother if she would rather have him make
her a sandwich. I can tell this is no ordinary sandwich he is talking
about. There is something special between them about this
sandwich. I gather that it is symbolic of a warm moment they shared
at an airport restaurant once upon a time, and he has learned to
reproduce it in order to resurrect the feeling. I readily agree to take
this “Eucharist” with them, though the communion loaf is in reality a
grilled ham and cheese Host celebrating a spirit of union between
these two I call my parents.

So I sit quietly with Mom at the picture window. We watch clouds go
by. There’s really not a lot to say. I’m just being there with her. She
sits in her wheelchair I call the Cadillac and breathes oxygen from
nasal tubes. From the kitchen come the sounds of my father wasting
no time in creating our sandwiches.

Soon I am holding a sandwich, fried golden brown in butter with
processed ham, processed cheese, and chilies inside, and oozing with
mayonnaise and mustard. This thing is poison to me, I think, as I
munch it down politely, but the darned thing was disgustingly
delicious and gave me no heart attack.

During each of the last three visits, my father has taken me aside and
without introduction or explanation revealed information to me about
his estate and holdings. In the last year or two, he has made
reference to a will. His “talks” with me have been circumspect and,
well, odd. But I understand now that he wants me to know that there
will be a legacy. It is with that same gravity that he returns to the
living room as I finish the sandwich. He begins explaining in great
detail how the sandwich was made.

“Now, you put the mayonnaise on one side, and you put the mustard
on the other,” he explains, waving one hand back and forth across the
other, like he is brushing something on a piece of bread, “and the
cheese goes on the mayonnaise side, and the ham goes on the
mustard side. Then the green chili goes in the middle,” he adds,
making a gesture like shoving mail into a slot.

He is really into it, powerful eye contact and all, as he explains, “Now
you only butter one side of the sandwich before you put it in the
pan,” He is giving me technique as well as structure. “You don’t put it
on the other side until just before you turn it over.”

And then it hits me. He is passing on the secret of the family
sandwich to me. As I watch him the strange thought occurs to me
that he should have given me this much detail in the sex talk we
never had. It’s amazing to me that in that regard, I learned all by
myself where to “put the chili”. (Shameless digression to get a laugh.
Sorry.)

He returns to the kitchen and comes back out holding a small short
can in his hand. He walks up to me and holds out the can so I can
read the label. “Whole Peeled Green Chilies” it reads. He continues to
hold it out there in the air, as if for emphasis. He says nothing, but
he looks meaningfully at me. It is a scene like the one where the
family friend in “The Graduate” delivered his one word line, “Plastics!”
So, this is the important part I think to myself, the thing that (besides
how the butter was put on) separates our family sandwich from all
other cheap imitations. I look at him and signal with a nod and
knowing look that, indeed, I understand the importance of the
gesture.

In my fantasy I jumped up and said, “Yes, sir, General, you can count
on me. I’ll make that sandwich just the way you showed me. I won’t
forget which side the ham goes on either. Just wait, you’ll be proud!”

A lifetime has proven to me that he will leave this life not knowing
my sense of humor, nor I his, and that is a sadness to me. But we
have achieved a tentative peace, and I am content with the limits of
what we have. I have learned so much from our strange interactions.

I have decided to teach my daughter how to make the family
sandwich right away. I had a mental image of a nurse turning from
me to speak to the doctor as I lay in my hospital bed, nearly mute
from a sudden stroke sometime in the future.

“What did he say?” asks the doctor.

“I’m not sure,” she answers. “I think he’s delirious. He asked me to
call his daughter and bring him a can of peeled whole green chilies.”

By the way, in case you’re wondering, no, I haven’t really divulged the
secret of the sandwich. In telling the story, I purposely withheld one
key ingredient. Sorry, I can’t tell you what it is. It’s family. : )

Key Ingredient

Re: Key Ingredient

Re: Key Ingredient

Re: The Family Sandwich - In Memory of...

Re: The Family Sandwich - In Memory of...

Re: Key Ingredient

Re: The Family Sandwich - In Memory of...

Re: Been there..