Sandwiches

I hate sandwiches. I absolutely do. And I can tell you when I started hating them – it was when I was twenty six years old. I moved out of home, and became responsible for making the sandwiches.

Yes – prior to that, my mum made them for me. I took them in to work when I was teaching, and every day, I would eat those sandwiches and know I was loved.

In truth, I didn’t always like the sandwiches. Sometimes, Mum put egg in them (bleurgh!), and more often than not, the cucumber she threw in would have made the bread wet. Then there were the times when the pickle chunks were so plentiful that they’d fall out of the hunks of bread and into my lap,  thence to the floor, leaving me in a conundrum: do I ignore the sandwich fallout in the staff room and create work for the cleaners, or do I style it out, and hunt for the cubes of seasoned potato strewn upon the carpet tiles on my hands and knees, as if it were the most normal behaviour in the world? Either way, I’d spend the afternoon teaching with stains down my top.

Whether I enjoyed the sandwiches Mum made or not, I can promise you one thing, and that is that I never complained about them. Even if I sometimes didn’t like them, they stopped me from being hungry, and they saved me time and money.

Now, in recent times, a THING has been made about my own ability to make the most basic of food. My sandwich-making has been ridiculed at every level – by people that are supposed to be my good friends, and after sixteen years of abuse, I would like to set the record straight.

It all began one innocuous day, probably in September 2003, when I first made Big Seymour his packed lunch. We had moved into our own house, and as I made my own lunch, so I made his. Over time, I became aware that he left a lot of the food in his lunch box, and this confused me: how was he surviving the day, eating just a packet of crisps and maybe a banana? And why, especially, did he not eat his sandwiches? For we all know, and have had it instilled in us, that you must ALWAYS AND WITHOUT FAIL eat your sandwiches, then your fruit, and then – ONLY THEN! May you eat your goodies.

We had words back then. I felt that, as I was making the sandwiches, I was entitled to speak my mind. I think I may have even tried not making him a lunch, but the knowledge that money was tight meant that, through fear of him spending a fortune on garage fast food every day, I carried on regardless. Besides, as I have insinuated, there is nothing that says I love you more than a packed lunch. It is a primitive offering. Forget flowers and jewels – if you can provide a meal on the hoof for someone, you’re saying “I want you to survive whilst you’re out in the big wide world.  Here are some stodgy carbs to keep you going”.

And then the day came – the fateful day, when it became apparent that the food I was lovingly offering was being scrutinised by Big Seymour and his colleagues. Anaylsed! Picked apart! Laughed at! Pooh-poohed. .

I mean, how funny can a sandwich actually be? I never realised that cheese and pickle was so goddamn hilarious! Or that ham and salad cream deserved such mirth. But somehow, by this time, my sandwiches had become the subject of much bullying (! – yes, I used the B word!) and so I took drastic action.

The day after I discovered how hilarious my sandwiches had become, I devised a little plan. They wanted something to laugh at? So I bloody well gave it to them. And thus I dutifully prepared some cheese sandwiches for Big Seymour, and then looked in the cupboard for a special something – raisins would do. Into the soft white bread I pressed and spelled out a little message to all those who would, no doubt, be gathered around Big Seymour’s lunch box the next day, anticipating a chuckle . Instead, the raisins told them all to fuck off.

Well, I think I sealed my fate that day. You can guarantee that now, even if I purchased artisan bread and charcuterie ham, and sprinkled the whole sodding sandwich over with twunting fairy dust, I will forever and always be remembered as the person who wrote obscenities into her Mighty White.

Nowadays, many years later, I still make Big Seymour’s lunch. And I make it for all the Little Seymours, too. (Except Mini, who still gets free food at school for another four weeks – I’m not so daft as to refuse the amazing KS1 UFSM*s.) There are two very obvious reasons why I do this – firstly, it saves us money. And secondly, it is because I love them.

I may be blacklisted as a bad cook and a rubbish housewife, but in my opinion, the day I stop making packed lunches for people will be a sad day. Even though I HATE doing it, it is so much more than a packed lunch. It is a gesture of care – however soggy the bread might be. With or without little green dots of mould on the bread crusts, the packed lunches I provide could keep my people going in the event of Armageddon, a snow storm or a traffic jam on the M25.

So, dear friends who I respect and value in spite of your constant (and sustained) teasing (bullying?) about my inability to make a decent packed lunch, I would like you all to know: you may continue to taunt me, but from now on, I have decided to rise above it all. The Four Little Seymours have all survived to date without being damaged by my Tupperware-wrapped offerings. In fact, none of them seem to object to them at all.

And know this! If I ever make you a sandwich, it is because I love you.

And you must therefore eat it. Raisins, mould and all.

*Universal Free School Meals