I thought we were stopping by Subway, I comment half-heartedly. It's much easier and faster... perhaps even cheaper...
Change of plans. He winks with a grin. We'll enjoy this more.
Back at home, I watch him as he carefully layers all my favorite lunch meats and Swiss and Pepper-jack cheese inside the open sourdough hoagie. He slices large rounds of tomatoes and arranges them in overlapping pattern on top of the cheese. Then he shreds the lettuce, cuts up olives and sprinkles them along with extra jalapeno and banana peppers all over on the bread . He smothers everything with garlic-and-herb mayo and spicy brown mustard. By the time he is finished, it's quite a work of art, but that doesn't stop me from salivating small waterfall. The sandwich is so big he can hardly close it. He cuts it with a serrated knife and hands me my half. He prays, but his prayer is simply a continuation of the sandwich-making process, not an interruption to it. This upward-bound conversation feels like an indispensable part of the art of food-making and the art of food-eating. We say, Amen, and dive into the overflowing volcano of yumminess.
Mmmm, I mumble with my mouth full, it actually tastes as good, or maybe even better, than Subway.
I thought you might enjoy it... He looks like he is enjoying watching me enjoy my sandwich as much or more than eating his own. As I was saying, there is a time for Subway, and there is a time for making sandwiches at home
You said that... or something similar about Home Depot.
Mentioning Home Depot reminds me of the surprising revelation, the unintended effect the Place Where Miracles Happen Every Day has on me, the out-of-bounds desires, the discontentment, the sense of paralysis. With some food in my stomach, I am feeling much better, but the lingering question remains.
Is this why you didn't want us to go to Home Depot on National Planting day?
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