Post Traumatic Sandwich Disorder

It was the seventies and the height of bad food, as far as I am concerned, a time where anything soft, soggy and squishy reigned. Insipid meatloaves, canned peas, goulash, Cheez Whiz, boxed macaroni and cheese, and that bane of my existence, mushy sandwiches on soft white bread. Reluctantly, I consumed one almost every day.

Peanut butter and jelly on stale Wonder Bread was my standard school lunch, plopped into a Scooby-Doo lunch box, lightly macerated with red Kool-aid from a leaky thermos. For me, the best part was the crust. I was the weird kid who liked the crust. Eventually, I omitted the jelly, though. Cold, gelatinous foods weren't appetizing to me.

The worst sandwiches, by far, were the ones my Dad used to slap together when there was nothing else to eat. Dad would stare into a fridge of moldy, unidentifiable foods and proudly proclaim: There's plenty to eat in here! Then pull out a piece of leftover, petrified breakfast sausage, slap it between two pieces of semi-moldy bread, dribble some watery ketchup on top, and call it a meal. I stared in revulsion. Dad liked his sandwiches. They soaked up the alcohol and curbed the appetite. Bologna and mustard were favorites. Along with greasy fried egg, Tuna Salad - which always made the house smell like cat food – and sometimes pimento cheese. But most of the time, he just scrounged around and made a sandwich out of whatever he could find. Pickles and potato chips were an afterthought. But I always liked the crunch that potato chips lent to a bologna sandwich. Anyone else out there put potato chips on their sandwiches?

What is a sandwich without bread? Our options were limited back then, nothing like the chewy artisans we have today. And my mother was notorious for never tossing out old bread. Even after it turned a nice, furry green, it still enjoyed a cozy place to thrive in our deserted kitchen cabinets.

Once, in the eleventh grade, I woke up in a panic, realizing I had procrastinated and never did the required science experiment. Quickly, I rummaged through the kitchen cabinets and spied an entire loaf of penicillic Roman Meal, not a speck of white showing. Perfect. When I handed the experiment over to my teacher, he said, Now that's a person who was planning ahead. That night, my mother chuckled when I told her what I had done.

By the time I graduated high school, I was pretty much sandwiched out, and the thought of a another squishy, soggy, thrown-together meal was more than I could bear. I was experiencing what I call PTSD, Post Traumatic Sandwich Disorder. And it was years before I could even look at another sandwich, let alone eat one.

Eventually, on a trip, I discovered the Muffaletta with its spicy salami, tangy olive salad, and yeasty bread, I never knew a sandwich could be so good. I couldn't get enough. Soon I was hanging out at cafes and deli's, bringing home different breads and fillings, trying to duplicate this tasty sandwich at home. It was then I realized, I was cured. Muffaletta's are powerful medicine. And I now enjoy all types of sandwiches: Panini's, Ruebens, Submarines. Except, occasionally, when my husband makes a fried egg sandwich and slathers it with Miracle Whip, I wince. No amount of therapy is going to help me get over that one.