A Perfect Date

I arrived a little earlier than usual that Friday, collected my date, and immediately departed for the local Super Wally-Mart. With the hope of demonstrating my domestic prowess – Lists? We don't need no stinking lists – I'd memorized my shopping list:

Loaf of Nature's Own Honey Wheat Bread
Jif smooth peanut butter
Dole pineapple slices in syrup
Kraft Jet-Puffed marshmallow creme
Oscar Mayer beef bologna
Iceberg lettuce
Hellman's mayonnaise
Goulden's spicy mustard
Polander's All Fruit strawberry spread
Honey bear
Bananas

As we meandered with our cart up and down the aisles, in order and skipping none (yes, that's really how I shop), we people-watched and window shopped, talking about food likes and dislikes and an array of other culinary topics. Once all the items had been secured, we checked out and returned home with our provisions.

We'd had this date planned for some time. Funny, really, how it came about . . . he called while I was eating a sandwich for lunch one weekend, and when I described it to him, he became intrigued because the components were a little unusual. I then proposed that we have a "sammich date," one in which we each made for the other our favorite sandwiches from childhood. It would require more than one day, as no one in their right mind would try to eat four or five sandwiches at one sitting.

That first night for dinner, we each had a peanut butter and banana sammich. This sandwich is a classic and hard to mess up; however, it's nearly impossible to eat one without thinking of Elvis.

Saturday morning, we each had two pineapple sammiches. This sandwich was my Dad's favorite, and it's quite simple: a little mayonnaise on each slice of bread, and two opened rings of pineapple on each sandwich. By splitting the rings, and tucking one of the ends into each ring center, you can achieve maximum coverage. Tangy and sweet, it was a perfect choice to start the day.

For lunch, we each had one fluffernutter sammich, which was my favorite childhood sandwich. Fluffernutter (which, ironically, was mentioned in a friend's blog last spring as the name of a pet) is made of equal parts smooth peanut butter and marshmallow creme. Stir them up until fully blended and spread on one of the slices of bread, to be covered with another. Quite pleasant, filling, a little sticky, and impossible for me to eat without feeling like I'm five again.

For dinner on Saturday, I made my signature Perfect Bologna Sammich (capitalized because it has garnered marriage proposals in the past, along with my mashed potatoes), of which we each had two. This is a sandwich that I perfected in the early 90s. Construction: on one slice of bread, spread mayonnaise. On the second slice, spread spicy mustard. On each slice, place a slice of bologna, or two if you're feeling froggy. Now for the critical part – as the center layer of the sandwich, place several leaves of crisp, iceberg lettuce. Assemble the sandwich. The placement of the lettuce serves two purposes: first, it keeps the sandwich from sticking to the roof of your mouth, and second, it aerates the sandwich as you're eating it, allowing for maximum flavor. It will make your taste buds sing.

Sunday's breakfast consisted of a special peanut butter and honey sammich for each of us. They were special because they were prepared in advance, on lightly toasted bread, and placed in Ziplocs. They were then placed in the refrigerator for several hours; however, you can also leave them in overnight, if you prefer. The cold crystallizes the honey, and it makes an interesting, sweet and crunchy sandwich. I was happy to add this recipe to my sammich repertoire.

The PBH sammiches used the last of the loaf of bread, so we never made it to the classic PBJs. Fiscally speaking, we'd achieved five meals for what we might have spent on a single dinner out, so that made me happy. Romantically speaking, our sammich date afforded us the opportunity to spend quality time together, and learn even more about each others' tastes and histories. Admittedly, it was the simplest of dates, but undoubtedly, it was one of the most perfect I've ever had.

Long live the sammich.

Read To Me

I read to you from The Kama Sutra
I giggle, I blush, not at the words that fall gently
From my tongue, but at how many
Tasks of love we've mastered without guidance;
Still, I demonstrate the lotus box for you

You read to me from An Incomplete Education
We are pleasantly surprised at each other's knowledge -
Some lacking - in broad subjects and cultures;
Of tricky words, phrases, and history
And at how often misspelled is mispelled

Our bodies still glisten from the day as
Your cheek rests gently against my lower belly
Fingertips tracing my navel, tender and electric
You gaze longingly across that flat plain,
Communicating your wish that I should carry

I softly ask if that is what you're thinking, and
With a timid smile, you ask if I've read your mind.
Our passion, urgent now but often lazy,
Engulfs us again before I can reply,
"Perhaps it is that you've read mine."

Where Does Time Live?

This poem was written for my friend R's recent Poetry Challenge.


Where does time live? This abstract,
this phantom does not exist until we
become aware of it, either by accident
or because it is thrust upon us.

Does it live in an alarm clock?
A history book?
A crow's foot?
A family tree?
A pocket watch?

Does it live in an Autumn leaf?
A forgotten wall?
A mossy patina?
A missing stone?
A cherished memory?

We often stumble upon it, surprised,
because we've managed to lose track of it
somehow; yet, how does one misplace
a thing so big as time?

Still Life With A Grape

A shallow bowl sits off-center on the table
Its antique porcelain painstakingly hand painted
Filled full with fruit just breaching over ripeness
A sunbeam pierces the slit between the gauzy drapes
Briefly brightening a worn tablecloth
Nearly divested of its white and yellow squares
The sunbeam finds in its narrow path
A solitary grape that has fallen to the table
A sacrificial offering, but by whose hand?
The grape is conspicuous in his exile
Bravely facing the sunbeam's embrace
Behind faded flowers and vines
Soft shadows lurk within the wallpaper
Ready to feast when the fruit begins to spoil
The sunbeam rests upon the grape
As his shadow grows to twice, thrice his size
Waiting to devour him on a faded tablecloth
He valiantly fights this battle every evening
While the rest of his kin are wasted
Always to the same end until he tires
His skin, much darker than his blood,
Splits under the crushing embrace of the beam
On a battlefield of white and yellow squares.

Fingerprints

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Strange symbols placed upon a glass
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Once fogged by illicit, commingled breaths
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . These phantom fingerprints

. . Petite in their assault, they now speak loudly
Of a girl who didn't exist in her mind, or yours
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sad, long forgotten etchings

. . . . . . . . . . Their placement and fervor are no less telling
. . . . . . . . . . . Than a spent prophylactic or a rouged collar
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pitiable, fatuous love

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Leaving me with another unwanted souvenir
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . When the clime is right, your secrets do still
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Name you, and call you out