Leftovers for Sandwich

The bread needs to cradle its contents.

...

In and out. In and out. I played musical chairs. A spell beneath the awning. A spell at the kitchen table. A spell back outside. I'm starving. The grill was hot, HOT. The paint beneath flaked and flew away, small and large, like a flock of blackbirds. The dog panted profusely, cooling her belly on any bit of shaded concrete she could find.

"Charcoal is better than gas." Someone said. We all said.

On went the eggplant.

"It's done already?" I asked. Roberto handed me the tray of eggplant. Once inside Roberto's mother coated with olive oil, salt, parsley and a reserved shake or two of dried oregano.

"Taste it." She said.

"It's good." I said.

On went the onions.

"It's done already?" I asked. I helped remove the onions from the grill basket. Once inside I coated with olive oil and salt.

On went the goat ribs. On went the steaks. On went the hotdogs.

I made potato salad. It sat fighting for position on an overwhelmed kitchen table surrounded three generations strong.

"The only way to eat a hot dog is with mustard." I said. I also lean towards raw onion, but there was no raw onion, so the only way to eat a hot dog is with mustard. Words of wisdom from someone who only eats a hot dog once, maybe twice a year.

"There's no room for salad." I said. Our plates runneth over with meat.

The day was capped off with slices of homemade apple cake and a round of single espressos.

Our second day without pasta. Can you imagine?

A quarter watermelon (not very sweet—not quite in season) and leftover peppers made their way home with us. As Roberto napped, I prepped our Tuesday lunch. Baguette with leftover mozzarella and peppers. I sliced and hollowed out, because the bread needs to cradle its contents. Come Tuesday at noon the bread should be nice and damp from the overnight olive oil soak. The mozzarella will be tattooed with red and green from the peppers, infused with a subtle hint of garlic.

...

I should have made myself a bigger sandwich.