Sandwiches are very special. Pretty much every BLT will be good, but when the tomato slices have been dried on a paper towel, and the order is bread + peppered mayo + lettuce + peppered and salted tomato + applewood smoked bacon + peppered mayo + bread, I’m absolutely catatonic with gratitude. My person likes her ham sandwiches with mayo and mustard mixed and on both slices of the bread, and there’s a special horseradish-to-mustard ratio when it comes to roast beef situations. I know these things because I fucking love her and I paid attention when she made her own sandwiches next to me in our kitchen. When I make PBJs for the kids, I know who wants crunchy peanut butter and who wants extra jelly. I also know that they’re a Grape Only Zone, and they know I’m an Anything But Grape Zone, and that’s what the seedless blackberry jam is for.
A sandwich made by someone else really can be like kisses and hugs and sex and home and pillows and screen doors and life, because it means you have a someone, and that they paid attention, and they give a fuck.
Because you can’t just say nothing before hanging up the phone.
I made waffles for you autostraddle.
