Taking care

 She could feel his iciness as she pulled open the door to the Indian restaurant.  She had told him she would try to work on this, and she wanted to believe that she could--for his sake.  Not sure whether or not to address her (apparently) defiant act or leave it untouched, she avoided eye contact.  Unable to leave anything but poison ivy and expensive, gold-framed paintings untouched, she broke the tension.  It was as if the pieces of their tension grew into individual statues, each representing a different unresolved issue between the two of them.  Among them: a woman who shuns help from others, particularly male others; a man who, admittedly feels confusion and a bit of embarrassment about the situation, but, nevertheless, feels strange letting a woman hold the door for him; and a devoted woman embracing a pained man, who is holding the recently and intentionally, emptied carafe of wine.

 

My mother told me in third grade that if I didn’t want to eat cafeteria food--and I did not want to eat cafeteria food--I would need to make my own lunch.  Thus, began my ten year stint as a mediocre sandwich-maker.  I told myself that sandwiches were not meant to be made in home kitchens.  Like a croissant, if you want to eat a good sandwich, you go to the sandwich shop and talk to a professional, you don’t make one yourself.  Over the years, my interest in sandwiches waned. It was a constant in my day-to-day life, and it fulfilled a utilitarian purpose, yet it brought little joy or fulfillment.  And, that was fine with me.  My mother instilled many amazing qualities in me, including independence.  Yet, she also modeled a life in which a once meaningful partnership lost it’s passion, purpose, and fulfilling qualities.  And, that seemed to be fine with her.

When I was twenty-seven I found myself partnered with a man who I trusted and who made me feel respected in a way I had not believed possible before.  Some time after we began our co-habitation, and fell into morning routines and evening lulls, I made one of those rare, exciting discoveries.  Here’s some backstory first: I took my first job in years outside of a kitchen, and, as a result, added the daily chore of packing a lunch to my morning routine.  As a former baker, who rolled out of bed hours before the sun rose and stumbled into a restaurant kitchen with coffee and pastries within arm’s reach, I was accustom to moving quickly from bed to car to work--with little to take care of besides dressing myself and cleaning my teeth, I was lucky if I remembered the deoderant.  As an adult in the world of desk jobs, parking garages, office refrigerators and mysteriously filthy microwaves, I found myself facing the tactical nightmare of work meals.  

First, I don’t want to sit down at the table to eat breakfast in the morning; I’d rather sleep.  Plus, I have the stomach of an infant first thing in the morning--it only craves liquids.  Therefore, I need to bring something that will be considered “breakfast,” and preferably something that can be made ahead of time.  This problem was solved easily, if not somewhat uncomfortably, with a smoothie.  I sucked it down with a straw, and I was full until noon; utilitarian like those sandwiches I ate as a child--only filled with kale and not served with a side of baby carrots.  Second, I need to bring a lunch that a. will travel well in a backpack both in a car and by foot, b. will not produce a foul smell in any kitchen appliance, and c. will not create logistical issues at a desk, computer-adjacent.  Again, preferably something prepared the night before.  Leftovers worked like a charm.  However, cohabitation has taught me that not everyone is content eating the same meal for dinner and then again for consecutive lunches, so leftovers were often sparse.

It was a rare morning; he was getting out of the house before I was, so I happened to catch him mid-sandwich making.  Stunned, I confessed that I had never seen such a magnificent creation outside of a Miracle Whip commercial.  He laughed, probably out of pity.  He offered to make me a sandwich.  Of course, I denied his offer.  Nate had yet to convince me to take my lunches more seriously; I’d grown accustomed to packing an assortment of snacks that I deemed passable for “lunch.”  I was, like a rat: scurrying around our kitchen; gathering a quarter-full sleeve of Saltines, a four-day old pear, a who-knows-how-old bag of roasted almonds, and a brand-new canister of wasabi peas; and attempting to shove them all into the small space of my backpack’s front pocket.  The fact that I now lived with what appeared to be a fantastic sandwich-maker stuck in my mind throughout the day; particularly around the lunch hour as I, like the sad little girl at the cafeteria table who has nothing to enter into the bargaining, sat alone, munching on her mediocre snacks.  Remember my mother’s ability to remain complacent? Lucky for me, although possibly why I will never have her slender figure, I place too high a value on consuming delicious food once I’ve seen it in person to let decades-old neuroses stand in my way.  All of my “I can do it myself”’s and “I don’t need someone else to”’s disappear when it’s a matter of edible handouts.  

That evening, I sheepishly broached the issue of sandwiches with Nate, and before I could finish my sentence I could feel him boiling with excitement.  Like the po’ folks of Louisiana he comes from, nothing makes him happier than being able to feed someone.  The next morning, I was surprised by the feeling I had as I packed my sandwich tupperware into my backpack.  I remember looking around the cafeteria tables at lunch in elementary school, and spotting all of the fun, new foods that I’d seen during the commercials of my hour-long television window the night before.  I remember thinking how happy those other kids were with their Ding-Dongs and Bugles and Lunchables.  But, I wondered, if they felt grateful for what they had each day.  While at the time I certainly couldn’t see it, years later I look back on this experience as formative and valuable.  So, now, as an adult, who could totally buy her own Ding-Dongs and Bugles and Lunchables, I instead sit at my desk and sink my teeth into a lovingly crafted sandwich.  He creates a perfect ratio of meat to bread to greens; he uses just the right amount of mustard and mayonnaise to moisten, but not sog, the bread.  He produces a sandwich that, I kid you not, makes me close my eyes and sigh quietly, yet audibly, to the empty room.  This sandwich does not merely satiate me and fulfill a utilitarian purpose, but it serves as a reminder that, whether I need it or not, I have a person who finds joy in sending me off to work each morning with a solid meal.  

I don’t mean to suggest that my mother does not find joy in keeping me fed. Grocery shopping was our weekly activity, including our putting-away-the-groceries-routine: I took the non-perishables and she took the perishables.  However, I was a capable eight year old, and she was hustling to take care of a household.  She put faith in my abilities to step up my responsibilities, and I enjoyed the freedom and independence it afforded me.  She and I both know all too well, that I don’t need someone else to make me a sandwich.  Truthfully, there are a lot of things that I do not need from someone else.  And for a long time what I did not need seemed to become synonymous with what I did not deserve.  Although the full-Freudian diagnosis for my condition is still waiting on a few outstanding test results, I have evolved over time.  So, no.  I don’t need a man to make me a sandwich, but I do love for my man to make me a sandwich.  

Author's Note

I wrote this for a summer workshop for teacher's and would love any constructive criticism. Potentially, I will add to the piece as I hope the prologue suggests. Also, consider "Taking care" a working title, if you have suggestions.

Reviews

[Tilly]

Beautiful, Laura. You have an amazing hand at writing,

[brinda]

There is something very fluid in your writing.It's as if you know exactly where you are heading.You kind of have this 'O Henry' style of storytelling(he is one of my favourite author).To put it in a nutshell,I loved it!
P.s:Maybe you meant 'I was accustomed to moving quickly from bed..'.It could be otherwise,but thought should bring it to your notice.