L'ARTISTE DU SANDWICH

365 DAYS OF THANKSLIVING — DAY 170

Chapel was done, and so was visiting. With all the octogenarians and nonagenarians wheeling toward the dining room, it was time to make my exit. One stop to see Chaplain Noel, and I was back out the door into the cool dampness of another gray day. Little did I know, my next encounter would bring a bit of sunshine to the overcast atmosphere enveloping our land.

Three minutes later (small towns, and all), I arrived at the fast-food house of hoagies—you guessed it: Sub-a-way. While a Subway sub isn’t quite as special as it was thirty-five years ago (when we’d order one and sneak it into the movie theater), it’ll do in a pinch when you’re too lazy to hunt for lunch in the fridge. That was my thinking, anyway.

But before going in, I rang the wifey and asked her if she wanted anything. “Well, yah,” she said. “If you’re getting some lunch, get me some too.” All’s I had to do was wait for her text, and then I could go in. (Don’t know why I had to wait, though; she’s as much of a creature of habit as I am.)

Let’s see if I can get this from memory. This is me not cheating here. You’ll just have to trust me: Foot-long Italian Herb and Cheese; BMT, with spinach, tomato, cucumbers, banana peppers, a bit of mayo, and vinaigrette. How’d I do, honey? Did I remember correctly?

Anyway, I’d never seen the young gal working behind the counter before. She must’ve been new, I thought to myself. Her counterpart—just a few years older, and her manager, I presume—well, her I’d seen a number of times. That one's a good “sandwich artist,” as they call themselves. She was busy as a beaver, darting back and forth, doing this and that. As for the new gal, we’d just have to see how she stacked up.

Gotta tell ya, I was super-impressed. Like, totally impressed. She might’ve been a new recruit, a journeyman if you will, but good golly Miss Molly, this kiddo wasn’t just a “sandwich artist.” She was L'artiste du sandwich—a smörgåskonstnären, as they’d call her in Sweden. Or perhaps she was Norske or German. In those cases, she’d be a smørbrødkunstner or Der Sandwich-Künstler. The point is, this girl wasn’t just some kid slathering on the mayo and suffocating the bread with meats and veggies; she was a true artist in the making.

Now, truly, Subway is certainly no Michelin-rated restaurant, but this young gal treated our fast-food footlongs like Michelin-star masterpieces. She took her time. She made sure everything was just perfect, making them look as if a commercial food stylist had prepped them for a photo shoot (you know, the folks who use motor oil for syrup and glue for milk—but I digress). Anyway, this kid’s got sammich skills that, who knows, just might take her places.

ANYWHO… tonight, I’m thankful for the young twenty-something who took pride in her job and care in making our sammich. I mean, the last time I was there, the dude who made our sammies looked like he’d just escaped Alcatraz, had fewer teeth than an inbred Mainer, and slung-together our subs as though they were tossed salads. He was a disaster; she, though, was a delight.

“Whatever you do, do it from the heart, as something done for the Lord and not for people, knowing that you will receive the reward of an inheritance from the Lord. You serve the Lord Christ.” — Colossians 3:23–24