My parents lived in Ann Arbor, Michigan, right after they were married. Daddy worked for Ford Motor Company, and Mom taught elementary school. They lived there for four years - long enough to have my older sister and rot the bottom out of Sam, the yellow Mustang. (From this experience, my parents have some sort of compulsion to make me wash my car every week when it snows. Steel's come a long way since the late 60s, I promise. They coat both sides now. Really.) Daddy got another job in North Carolina, and they moved to Charlotte. Julie and I were born in Charlotte's Presbyterian Hospital.
Mom and Dad had a ritual when they were a young couple living in Michigan. On Sunday mornings, they'd make Sunday Sandwiches. I first remember Sunday Sandwiches on a Saturday morning in Fayetteville in the summer between 8th and 9th grades. The best time I had Sunday Sandwiches was when Mom and Dad drove up here to Indiana with my kitchen table. My first meal on my kitchen table in Indiana was Sunday Sandwiches on Saturday morning. The bologna, I swear, was a half-inch thick.[1]
Sunday Sandwiches
two slices wheat bread per sandwich
yellow mustard [2]
mayonnaise [3]
lettuce
tomato
american cheese [4]
thickly-sliced (1/4") bologna [5]
Fry the bologna. You may have to make slices along the edge to keep it from curling up. Turn off heat, place slice of cheese on top of bologna. Spread one piece of bread with mustard, the other with mayonnaise. Pile sandwich with bologna and cheese, tomato, and lettuce, then toast until happy and brown.[6]
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[1] It was! I swear! |
