The bread came out dark, most days — darker than it needed to be. I never said anything. She’s gone now, and the sandwich has become a kind of monument, and you don’t deface a monument.
It was Wonder Bread, always — the wrapper with the balloons, bought on the same trip as the milk. My father’s favorite bread was Roman Meal, for his sandwiches with cold cuts, ham and bologna. Not with this one, though. The BLT got Wonder Bread. No special reason for it. Just the reason a family has for anything: once, and then always.
Kraft mayonnaise, from the jar. The same jar for everything else. Mom did not experiment. She had the regular things she made, and made them the same way every time.
Dad was picky about most food. This one he ate. I don’t know why. Maybe nothing beats bacon fat and tomato juice. Maybe it got in early, before he’d built his defenses, and stayed in by seniority.
No pickles in her BLTs. I didn’t miss them then. We use Claussen slices now, cut flat for this exact purpose, and good farmers’ market tomatoes when the season allows it.
Lunch, mostly. Rarely dinner.
Past a certain point, toast stops helping the tomato and starts blocking it. Hers had crossed that point, most days. I ate it anyway. Said nothing.
We make our own now, on sourdough, and it has never once tasted like hers. Not technique. You don’t get the sandwich back — any more than the kitchen, or the summer, or a mother at the counter making lunch for a picky man and a son who never once told her.
Note: inspired by the article “The Secret to a Perfect BLT Isn’t What You Think” by J.J. Goode in the New York Times.
