The Saturdays of my suburban youth while unremarkable in many ways were punctuated with familial terror, and good sandwiches. Terror because you just never knew how the day would unfold after the previous nights alcohol fueled fireworks, and good sandwiches because Saturday was grocery shopping day for the Grant clan.  With autumn approaching and football occupying the television, chilly Saturdays were spent indulging in the great American pastime, with overstuffed “Dagwood” sandwiches, salty potato chips, a good kosher dill pickle, and coca cola sucked from a little green bottle. A veritable wall of small green coke bottles in their classic red and white cardboard six pack, lined the walls of our musty garage, the tower of sugar syrup enough to stimulate four siblings indefinitely. The stacks had a growing monetary value, as they were “returnable”, which would be cashed in simply for being returned.  The gift that keeps on giving – sugared up children and cash back on your investment. All of this the precursor to the recycling craze and the first Earth Day no doubt.

Saturday morning was grocery-shopping day for my mother.  We never offered to help her, perhaps she made it clear that she needed time away from us. On those occasions when one or more of us had to go along for the grocery excursion, I can remember nothing of the old grocery store except the big wooden pickle barrel, which held endless fascination for me.  The shopping was punctuated with the joy of dipping into the big vinegary barrel with difficult to manage tongs, and swishing around trying to find the “good ones”.  Some would bob to the top amidst the juniper berries, black peppercorns, and mustard seeds, the new pickles.  Even a nine year old could intuit the pickles that stayed near the bottom of the barrel had been a long and arduous journey. Staying too long in vinegar and spices will make even the hardiest cucumber look like your wrinkled fingers when you’re in the bathtub too long, mealy and an odd shade of gray. The perfect pickle now firmly in the tongs grasp, I would reach for the small, white waxed bag with the image of Mr. Pickle on it, and deposit the brined goodness safely inside, the pickles fate just hours away from it’s crunchy death.  Laid out for it’s final viewing next to my sandwich, and a pile of macaroni salad so high it look like snow in the middle of winter, the yummy kosher dill accompanied my Saturday lunch.

My sandwich had the starring role on Saturdays.  The noble history of the sandwich in America dates back to the 1800’s, but my relationship with deli meat is much nearer, and dearer. We always had good Jewish Rye bread or a hard roll, poppy seeds optional, as the bookends that held the pile of turkey, Virginia baked ham, and on special Saturdays, roast beef. With six people to feed, the neatly sealed packages of cold cuts weighed two pounds, and barely made it through Monday. Carnivores all. I would slather the bread with Hellmann’s mayonnaise and Gray Poupon mustard. The neon yellow of French’s or any other brand never found its way into our kitchen, as my father attempted to alter his reality by the consumption of name brand foods, and designer labels, making him feel “better than”. This ruse assuaged his conscience and fulfilled his fantasy that we were socially elite.  Do you know that the foods you consume say a lot about how you view yourself, and others?  The supposed pecking order of Wonder Bread versus freshly baked Artisanal loaves from the bakery in town, playing out in some ridiculous game of status.  I never realized that bread could hold sway with my self- image and how as a child, I viewed our place in society.  I grew up with a mind polluted by false feelings of Gray Poupon superiority, when we lived a neon yellow reality.  The condiment shelf in my refrigerator now proudly displays both mustards and I can pat myself on the back of my conscience because of the diversity and inclusiveness in my food consumption.

My Rye bread appropriately slathered, now came the carnivores pile of roast turkey, an equally huge pile of Virginia Baked ham with its lightly smoky goodness.  Even as a young person, I had a budding affinity for architecture, evidenced in the intricate construction of my Saturday sandwich.  I never laid the slices of meat down on the bread.  Too flat and too pedestrian.  Unless of course the horror of deli meat that has been erroneously sliced too thick, made its way home from the grocery store with us.  I realize slicing cold cuts for a living can be a customer service nightmare.  You ask the deli lady “I’ll have a half pound of Virginia Baked ham sliced very thin please”.  She hands you the obligatory sample slice on the little piece of plastic deli paper, and of course it’s perfect.  But you get home and go to make your long awaited sandwich and the meat is as thick as a freakin’ ham steak!  How does that happen?  I have my favorite deli peeps, and pray as the numbers are being called, that I don’t get the ham steak lady.  I know you know what I mean.  She can single handedly ruin the best-laid plans for a gluttonous Saturday afternoon.  My tastes have matured a bit, my nutritional consciousness giving up the blanket of mayo that once covered my bread, in favor of a large spoonful of coleslaw sitting between the layers of meat.  The major food groups find fulfillment in the lowly sandwich, with bread (carbs), protein (deli meat – albeit a dubious protein), and vegetables (lettuce, tomato, and in my case the disguise of coleslaw), forming a complete meal.

It may have taken me a lifetime but I have come to the realization, I have many good memories from my childhood, and all of them revolve around food.  Sandwiches and Saturdays, unremarkable in many ways, but the memories fill my stomach, and my soul.

It’s a good, good Saturday!