Today I had a really good sandwich

everyone deserves to be treated

Today, I had a really good sandwich.

A sandwich should be simple, forgettable even. But this one—this one lingered.

I’ve always loved sandwiches. In the summer, a good caprese sandwich is my go-to. If you ever find yourself in Arkansas, there’s a supply store just past Sam’s Throne hiking trail. They sell a veggie sandwich there—a surprising twist of banana peppers pulls it all together. The perfect way to end a hike.

I didn’t just have it, I made a really good sandwich. Not just good—transcendent. The kind of sandwich that sits alongside the finest pleasures of life: a head massage, an unexpected A, or a deep belly laugh with a friend at the end of a grueling day.

Bread baked golden, cheese melted into silk, onions caramelized to sweetness. Apples sliced with precision. Arugula and balsamic—a pairing I’ll shamelessly adore forever. And as I sliced the tomatoes, I knew: this sandwich needed something more.

So I made soup. Butternut squash. Warm and soft, a tender counterpart to my small masterpiece. That I now wish I had taken a photo of.

It took an hour to make. Ten minutes to finish.

And then, an hour to somberly clean the kitchen. Each step, is a quiet ceremony.

How strange it felt, this slowness. How unfamiliar. For years, my meals have been rushed, utilitarian. The kind of eating that leaves no trace, no memory. I’ve told myself I’m too busy, that I don’t have the time to spend on food. But what am I busy with? Days consumed by work, by deadlines for classes I often forget, followed by long commutes and tasks that blur together. A life that feels, at times, like an endless loop.

But today, I had a really good sandwich.

And in the quiet of my kitchen, I thought of my mother.

My mother, who bakes bread from scratch. Who spent weeks planning birthday cakes, each one an intricate reflection of my fleeting interests— Barbie one year, Narnia the next.

Her hands are worn from decades of rolling chapatis, her arms strong from pounding dough. The house always smelled of her work love. And yet, for so long, I didn’t understand. I would watch her spend hours in the kitchen, knowing the results would vanish in minutes.

To cook is to create something that will not last. Something that must be consumed to fulfill its purpose.

It feels radical, almost, to pause in this way. To reclaim time from the unending demands of the world. Cooking is slow. It doesn’t fit neatly into the rhythms of a life shaped by efficiency.

But today, I had a really good sandwich.

And I think, maybe, now I understand something my mother has always understood.

How I felt writing this

Garlic is divine. Avoid at all costs that vile spew you see rotting in oil in screwtop jars. Too lazy to peel fresh? You don't deserve to eat garlic.