Gary Buys a Sandwich

Gary Buys a Sandwich
A baby carrot crossed my threshold. Let’s face it: Carrots aren’t supposed to look like that — perfect identical oblong shapes prone to sliminess. What could possibly be in the fluid that keeps those carrots so moist? I’m a food purist and a trash minimalist. Most of what I buy doesn’t come in a package, so if I can’t pull a few carrots from my front yard garden, I usually head to the farmers market to see what they have. I even harvested yeast from the peels of a locally grown apple, then added flour and water to breed a sourdough bread starter. For over a decade, I’ve fed that gummy concoction once or twice a week and use it to bake bread. Often, I send my kid out to the trampoline with a jar of heavy cream and tell her to come back when it’s turned to butter. She jumps and jumps and jumps until a lump of goodness forms in the middle of the jar. We pour off the juice, pure buttermilk, to make pancake batter, then rinse and salt the ball that’s left behind. Fresh butter on a steaming slice of crusty bread is delicious. Cancer changed all that. My husband doesn’t have a problem with baby carrots and he wouldn’t miss my smelly sourdough starter much if it landed in the disposal. He doesn’t consider how various textures are going to pair with each other when he packs our daughter’s lunch or if raisins will be too sweet in a chicken salad. He has his own way. “We’ll be there in five minutes,” I heard him say into his phone one morning when I was up before Lauren had to go to school — a rarity. My head was bald, my arms were bony, and my skin was see-through. “Who was that?” I asked. “Don’t worry about it,” Gary said, suddenly looking guilty. Lauren was cracking up. “It was Pat, Mommy. He makes sandwi
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