A couple of days ago, I bought some braunschweiger, sometimes called liverwurst, because it reminds me of my father. When I smear that gooey livery meat on a piece of bread and take the first bite, I think of my Dad. Come to think of it, I don’t know anyone outside of my immediate family who’s a fan of liver sausage.
My Dad enjoyed what he called "sandwich meat." When I was growing up in Minnesota, we almost always had salami, bologna, liverwurst, or something similar in the fridge. From my earliest memories, I knew that bread with meat, cheese, and mayo (or sometimes Miracle Whip) was the basic sandwich from which all other sandwiches were derived.
Colon cancer killed my Dad. I’m pretty sure his cancer can be blamed on his devotion to sandwich meat. He enjoyed eating two things: meat and chocolate. He hid his chocolate bars in the cupboard to the left of the stove. All seven of us children knew the Hershey Bars were there. We also knew we weren’t allowed to touch Dad’s Hershey Bars. If he hadn’t died from colon cancer (from meat), he might have been killed by dementia or a stroke or a heart attack or something. Everybody dies from something. We live and then we die.
Mom started out hiding her bottles of Johnny Walker Scotch in the same cupboard as Dad’s chocolate. Later, she hid her Scotch in various other places, including the upstairs bathroom and her pottery room, and when she quit drinking we were all very happy that she was being sober and acting like a human Mom. I’ll say this: She was an alcoholic for a while, but I never stopped loving her.
Mom’s sandwiches: She always put pickles on sandwiches. As a teenager, I’d never decide to put a pickle on a sandwich. I liked sandwich meat, perhaps with some cheese and lettuce and tomato and mayonnaise. Regular bread, perhaps, or toasted. If I was in the mood for bacon, hell yes. But I’d never add pickles.
But I have teenaged memories, times when I was sitting in the living room watching TV in the 1970s. "Kojak" maybe, or "The Rockford Files." Maybe even "The Monkees." Mom would go to the kitchen and come back with a sandwich cut in half. She’d ask, "Do you want half of my sandwich?" And it would almost always have a dill pickle on it. Then we’d watch the TV show as we ate our delicious sandwiches. Maybe we’d talk. Maybe we’d just watch the show. Pickles on a sandwich remind me of my Mom.
When I eat a sandwich with a pickle on it, I think of my Mom. When I eat liverwurst, I think of my Dad. Yesterday I made a sandwich with liverwurst for Dad and a pickle for Mom and mustard for me. And I thought of things that once were. Like Marcel Proust and his madeleines. Remembrance of things past.
Good night, dear parents. I’m still thinking of you, Mommy and Daddy.