The Sandwich
OPINION —
The unofficial last day of summer is here. And here, on the last day of summer, I start remembering things. The memories get so thick you have to swat them away like gnats.
My favorite thing about summer is tomato sandwiches. I can still remember my first tomato sandwich. I was young, just out of diapers, maybe 14 years old.
No, I’m only kidding. I think I was three or four. I remember my mother used to buy her tomatoes at a farm stand on the county line. Way out in the sticks.
The farmstand was in a barnyard that smelled of mud and dirt and horses. There were bales of hay everywhere. Goats walking around, unknowingly dropping pellets from their backends.
There were vegetables of every kind. Bright colors galore. Collards, yellow squash, ginormous zucchinis, piles of corn, onions the size of regulation volleyballs. And there was a huge vat of tomatoes.
I was drawn to the tomatoes first. I can’t explain why. Some things are just meant to be.
Maybe it was their brilliant red color. Or maybe it was their R-rated shapes. Or maybe it was that the tomatoes came in all dimensions, all shades, all varieties. A vivid palette of reds, pinks, yellows, oranges, purples, and zebra-striped greens. Misshapen, exploded-looking things, with prickly stems, and blemished skin.
There was the marvelous smell of tomato vines. Grassy and green, like fresh lawn clippings. Sweet and peppery.
My mother bought several pounds of heirlooms in a brown paper bag. Then, she walked to the station wagon, carrying the bag in one arm and me in the other.
There were groceries in the car, cooking in the backseat of the old Ford. The ice cream had melted. The butter had gone to be with Jesus. And right then, right there, she prepared a tomato sandwich.
Wonderbread. Duke’s Mayonnaise. Salt and pepper. The finished sandwich was lopsided, topheavy, and about the size of an average preschooler.
I took my first bite. One of the tomato slices, lubricated by a slathering of mayo, slipped from between my bread slices and fell to the earth. My mother simply picked up the tomato slice, dusted it off, and placed it back on my sandwich.
“A little dirt never hurt anyone,” she clarified.
When I was finished with the sandwich, I was wearing most of it. Tiny seeds clung to my shirt, blood-red juice stains ran down my chest, mayonnaise globs covered my chin, my neck, and hands.
Whereupon my mother took me to the nearest hosepipe, jutting from beneath the nearby farmhouse. She rinsed me off in the yard while the farmer, an old man in overalls, just watched. Periodically spitting. My mother stripped me and gave me a bath, right there.
And when I was finally clean, my red hair, curly and damp. My chubby white torso, bulging from the waistband of my miniature Levi’s. The farmer looked at me and said something I’ll never forget: “Tomato sandwiches are supposed to be eaten over the sink.”
And on the eve of Labor Day, the unofficial last day of summer, I am trying to live my life by that rule.
Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His column appears in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored 15 books.
