Thrift is the Only Virtue

They say you're more likely to hurt yourself with a dull knife than a sharp one, but they're wrong. Sure, you might slice a finger or shed a little flesh prematurely, but if you're aiming to carve your heart out and serve it to the object of your affection then you'll just be adding insult to injury.

None of Mother's knives are sharp, so I use my own. There's nothing worse than having slippage in your sandwich because the dull knife cuts the bread but does nothing but push the meat out of alignment and mess up what could have been a perfect lunch. I lay the bread slices on the counter and they fall open like praying hands. Three more sandwiches and I can be done with this sprouted grain monstrosity and buy the white bread Mother would never allow.

The refrigerator is a shrine of meat and American cheese and the door is a gospel choir of things that go with meat. I take what I need and line them up next to the bread. Mustard, thinly sliced American cheese, and a few wilting leaves of old romaine. I open the flimsy deli bag and peel back two slices of the clammy cheese. It feels like skin and smells like America, bland and cheap and full of God knows what that will eventually kill you.

The jar of mustard defies me and I run it under hot water. The cuts on my hands sting as the water rushes over the lid and over my fingers. I pull back my hand but the pain sings, making me feel alive here in the only church that matters. I get the lid open with one of Mother's flowery dish towels and scrape the jar clean with my knife. Condiments add up if you waste them, and pretty soon you have neither food nor money. This is the one thing that Mother taught me that I hold sacrosanct.

The mustard goes on first, then cheese in perfect symmetry. The meat in the ziplock bag is bloody and thick, some pieces crumbling from the edges, threatening to separate like continents. Fat marbles through like rivers in a holy land. This will be wonderful. The clock hums in the background, and the TV tells me today's litany of sinners and their transgressions. The world is full of hungry people, starving ghosts who know nothing about boundaries.

I slice the remaining tomato thinly and bid it farewell. The limp romaine I place on top of the cheese as a moisture barrier? Finally, the last of Mother's vegetables gone, even though at one point I feared they'd outlast her. That would be just like her, getting the last word. The refrigerator is almost empty of Mother's things now. It contains only the portion of meat I thaw daily, the cheese, and my last bottle of soda, which I no longer need to hide downstairs behind my bed. Gone are the cheerful plastic containers of hummus and beans, the Cthulhu-like piles of kale and chard.

The meat, as always, is last. The wait is exquisite. I raise the sandwich and tilt my head back in anticipation. Crumbs and bits of meat tumble down into place in my beard like Christmas tree ornaments. I bite into my creation, my eager lips meeting first the rough, tasteless excuse for bread and then the juicy, tender slabs of meat. Blood runs down my chin in rivulets through the obstacle course of hair.

The first bite is always the best, like the first memory of love, or that first and only kiss. I take the sandwich downstairs to the basement so I can eat it on the couch in front of my TV. I turn up the volume so I can hear it over the hum of the freezer chest. I'll need to go to the grocery store soon to get more condiments and some soda. I haven't been out in weeks.

Nothing good is on TV. I glance over at the freezer. If it weren't for the bread, I could make it a few more weeks. There's still plenty of Mother left.

I know, you think I am in the wrong, but it was her fault. This is what she gets for trying to make me go vegan. I said I didn't like it and I don't like wasting food.

Good thing I don't mind eating leftovers.