sand in the sandwich

There are certain foods that live rent-free in your memory.

Not because they were extraordinary.

Not because they were prepared by a world-famous chef.

Not because they changed your life.

But because they happened at exactly the right moment.

For me, it was a sandwich on the beach.

Growing up, my parents would take my brother and me to Zuma Beach in Malibu. We weren't packing gourmet picnic baskets. Nobody was slicing heirloom tomatoes or layering artisan meats onto freshly baked sourdough.

We brought sandwiches.

Wonder Bread.

Oscar Mayer bologna.

Kraft Singles.

That's it.

A sandwich so simple that if someone served it to me today, I'd probably raise an eyebrow.

Yet I remember those sandwiches as if I ate one yesterday.

I remember the way the white bread stuck to the roof of my mouth.

I remember the unmistakable taste of bologna—the kind that doesn't really resemble anything found in nature.

I remember the perfectly square slice of Kraft cheese somehow making the whole thing feel complete.

And I remember sitting on a towel, staring at the Pacific Ocean, convinced there was nowhere else in the world I'd rather be.

What fascinates me is that I don't remember every beach trip.

I don't remember every conversation.

I don't remember every toy I brought.

But I remember those sandwiches.

Memory is strange like that.

And because the universe has a sense of humor, I also remember the sand.

No matter how careful you were, a few grains always found their way into the sandwich.

You'd take a bite and there it was.

Crunch.

A little bit of Malibu mixed in with your lunch.

Oddly enough, it never ruined the sandwich.

It just became part of the experience.

Part of me wonders if that's why I remember it so clearly.

The sandwich wasn't perfect.

The bread got squished.

The cheese got warm.

The bologna probably spent longer than it should have sitting in a cooler.

And every now and then you got a little sand.

But somehow it was exactly what it needed to be.

Years later I've eaten in places I never imagined I'd visit. I've sat in restaurants with white tablecloths. I've had meals prepared by people with credentials far more impressive than mine.

Yet every once in a while my brain wanders back to Wonder Bread, Oscar Mayer bologna, Kraft Singles, and a few grains of California sand.

Funny how that works.

Maybe the best meals aren't the ones that impress us.

Maybe they're the ones that quietly become part of who we are.