- wheat bread
- creamy peanut butter
If you are the dad, and it is the rare Saturday when the mom is sleeping in, make your children breakfast.
Cook the bacon crisp as a plank. Make plenty of it.
Toast two slices of wheat bread per sandwich.
Cover each slice of toast with a thin layer of peanut butter, all the way to the edges and corners, as if you were spreading thinset for tile.
Arrange bacon slices on one piece of bread for full coverage, slightly overlapping, as if you were laying a tongue-and-groove floor.
Seal each sandwich with its toast mate.
Whistle while you work.
If you are the son, and your workplace has a campus cafeteria, and there’s a day when you need comfort food that’s not on the menu, ask the guy at the grill to make you one.
If you are the daughter, and it’s Friday night, and your cat is plaintively reminding you yet again that you’ve run out of moist food, and you need to have a bigger list than that to make yourself go to the grocery store, plan to have this the next day, which will be exactly four weeks since he died.
Put a ball cap on over your dirty hair and drive to the store.
Buy the store-brand wheat bread, which, as you know from insider information gleaned from your dad’s decades working at an industrial bakery, is often the exact same bread as a name brand, just in different wrappers and with different prices.
Buy name-brand bacon, like he and Mom did.
Text your brother and ask whether one or both slices of toast got peanut-buttered.
Ask whether the sandwich got cut or left whole. Feel a strangely bonding consolation at the news that he can’t remember that with certainty either.
On Saturday, spend the morning debriding neglected container plants, sweeping your balcony and washing the week’s dishes.
Make yourself this sandwich for lunch.
Leave it whole.
Remember his whistling while you work.
Optional: Eat it on the balcony, in the first chill of autumn to come. Eat it while wearing his shirt, the long-sleeved burgundy polo with the denim collar and the worn places at the wrists.