SPAM: THE FINAL FRONTIER | redclaydiary.com

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Life, actually…

SPAM: THE FINAL FRONTIER

It is one of those make-do nights in my Down South home.

The refrigerator is filled with stragglers from dinners past. Now that the family is fed, it is my time to determine what is edible for me. Time to pick through what’s left and prepare something for my dining pleasure.

What’s here?

There is always mayonnaise. I retrieve it and place it on the stove counter.

Some peanut butter rests next to the sink. It goes next to the mayo.

Let’s see…there is a semi-ripe banana within easy reach. I could use that.

Lettuce. Hmm…is there usable lettuce in the crisper? Yep, here’s a wedge. It clusters next to the other victuals awaiting their lonely fates.

OK, what else will satisfy me on the run? My main criterion is to feel temporarily full, so what can I add to the mix?

Half a loaf of seed-strewn brown bread is hiding behind a block of butter in the fridge.

Two slices coming up.

Wife Liz is munching on her own leftover meal and warily observing my meanderings.

She is a patient soul.

Shall I add marmalade? Nope, not this time.

I grab a can of dried fried onions from the wall cabinet, place it in the display.

What about salami? Nope, my stomach is not as tough as it used to be.

I find a small red plate and place it on the counter, arrange side-by-side two slices of seedy bread.

Next I kitchen-knife a dollop of mayo and spread it evenly onto one slice. Using a second knife, I drop a hunk of peanut butter onto the other slice and caulk the surface.

With yet a third knife I peel and slice the banana, then row up the mushy circles onto the peanut butter.

A couple of lettuce leaves top the peanut butter and banana disks.

Where was I?

Oh, a sprinkling of onions will add crunch to the meal. And maybe a palmful of shredded cheese I just remembered to fetch from the crisper.

I glance at Liz, who is successfully not verging on nausea.

I pick up one slice of bread, flip it face-down onto the other slice. Yet another knife is employed to slice the sandwich into four symmetrical finger foods.

I generously offer Liz one of the mini-snacks, she politely declines.

Now I grab my nearby fizzy drink and transport the red plate and myself into the studio, where we will eat side-by-side, chat about the day, enjoy each other’s company, and marvel over the fact that we can still appreciate our mutually exclusive eating habits.

Damn! I suddenly remember that there is a can of Spam in the pantry. Guess I’ll save it for another day. I can only push the relationship so far