Sunday, July 7, 2013


I was going to blog about the plane crash,
but changed my mind. Decided no tragedy today.
Then as I make my lunch of an old fashioned luncheon meat
sandwich, as I await the microwave to do it's
magic to my luncheon meat, I apply Mayo 
to my very fresh slice bread and then the mind,
it does one of those things that is so strange.
It takes me back in the memory bank of 
the first time I decided I liked Mayonnaise.
I can't remember what I had for lunch three days ago,
but the first time I like Mayo? Remember it so clearly.
Before 8th grade I like sandwiches dry.
No mustard, no ketchup and heaven forbid, no Mayo.
My Momma and Daddy had tried many times
to get me to try a good sandwich on french bread
with a condiment but until 8th grade they had no luck.
Then, it was a pajama party at a friend, Robin Gaspard's house
that turned me on to my first time.
Her Mom had a bunch of us girls over for the night,
brave woman. I was a late maturer and rathered stay
home than sleep at a friends house but something
about this party was going to be different.
Some of us were late bloomers such as I,
but that summer most of my friends were hanging on
the other side of maturity. I decided that being invited
to Robin's party was going to give me an advantage
for the 9th grade year. Some of these girls had periods,
shoot some of them even had boyfriends. 
What did I have?
Well, I had a love for luncheon meat sandwiches
and there was  a pile of them on the kitchen table all
cut like triangles. While the other girls talked of
crank calls and boys they liked I was wondering when we were
going to eat. Yeah, told you, late bloomer.
When the time came that the sandwich tray was opened,
I placed a few on my paper plate and there, there on my 
 beautiful little treasures was, you guessed it, 
Mayonnaise..... Oh my,  what would I do?
Only one thing I could do. I was hungry and it
would be rude to ask for another without mayo.
Then and there, I would never eat another 
smash sandwich, nor a luncheon meat sandwich on 
french bread without the wonderful taste of Mayo.
Of course, this story is not just about mayo but
about how the memory, it picks the things it remembers.
Not only do I remember that but all the girls that were
there that night. The phone calls that were made to boys,
some who had broken up with some of the girls at 
the party. We talked of Robin's house being haunted,
I realized that not all homes were like mines.
It was an eye opening experience, one I did not
fit in. Except for those sandwiches, I had little
in common with some of the girls.
My love for this condiment remains.

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