The last sandwich

By Jeanne Albanese

Today I will make the last peanut butter sandwich.

Not the last I’ll ever make, of course, but the last where I will spread the thinnest of layers of peanut butter onto white bread, cut in half, wrap in tin foil and slide into a black Nike lunch box, some days a brown paper bag when said lunch box would be MIA.

There are more exciting lunch options for sure. But any time turkey or ham made its way into that lunch box, it often came home half or not eaten at all. (And to be honest, sometimes even parts of the peanut butter sandwich returned uneaten.)

Just peanut butter please, he would say. And not too much. On track meet days, it would be two sandwiches and the second would require an even thinner layer of peanut butter, which rendered it almost invisible.

So as I reflect on the last day of high school for my senior, I think about the peanut butter sandwich.

It is the workhorse of the lunch box.

It is simple, unassuming and humble. But also steady and reliable.

It is singular in its focus.

It gets the job done. (Filling and nutritious, except for the white bread.)

Not unlike the boy for whom I have made it for almost every single school day for the past four years. (Except for the filling and nutritious part).

He’s unassuming and humble. But steady and reliable.

When he sets his mind to something—some things seemly impossible—he is singular in his focus. He gets the job done and done well, albeit often at the very last minute.

A workhorse for sure.

Could he have made his own lunch? Absolutely.

But to me—even though I hate to cook—food can be an expression of love, like the way my mother, who also hates to cook, still makes meatballs whenever I vist. So, what better way to go out the door too early in the morning than with some portable love in a bag?

]The deal with my kids has always been this: You clean your lunch box, pack your snacks and I’ll make the sandwich. Some early mornings after late games or lots of homework, I did those things for him, too. A small gesture to say I see how hard you’re working so let me help just a little.

His older brother’s sandwich of choice was turkey, American cheese and yellow mustard on a club roll. And make sure there’s not too much mustard. His never came home uneaten.

It’s not any easier to stop making lunches the second time.

His younger sister prefers pepperoni on rosemary bread or for a stretch, peanut butter and jelly with the crusts cut off and the rest cut like the British flag. (And yes, I would actually do that.)

Luckily, (mostly, because mornings can be a drag) I have 900 more days of pepperoni and British flags ahead of me.

After my oldest left for college, seeing his favorites in Wegmans — things only he ate that I no longer had to buy — at first brought me to tears right there in the aisle.

Luckily, the rest of us still eat peanut butter.

When my oldest graduated, I poured my emotions into a story about photos and of late, I have wondered how else I could put into words the deepest paradox of parenting, the simultaneous heights of pride for all that was accomplished and excitement for all that is to come, mixed in with so much sorrow about all the lunches unmade.

Old reliable peanut butter to the rescue, it seems.