Every so often, I start in with memories from long ago of a chicken sandwich…not just any chicken sandwich, but a chicken sandwich made by Mom. I am perfectly capable of fixing one myself, and have many times. It’s just never the same.
Once in a while on an evening before an elementary school day, Mom would fry chicken for dinner. She would make enough that there was some left over. From after dinner that evening through the anticipated lunch, I would every-so-often think about how good that lunch was going to be that next day.
My happy thoughts would travel to pulled-apart white meat chicken on white bread, with mayo, salt and pepper, properly cut in half (straight up and down). When you are young, and Christmas to Christmas is at least three years long every time, little things still hold some magical power.
I didn’t put much thought into the why’s or the details then. I didn’t need to. It was a happy time, and just living it was all that I needed to do.
Now, looking back, I see the importance of being taken care of in these ways. I see the importance of favorite foods, or activities, or conversations. There are plenty of memories…my own personal unadulterated, unintruded-upon family memories. Some, I share for a laugh. Some are just mine, and will remain so.
So if a chicken sandwich proves to me that I was loved, cherished, and taken care of, then so be it. My preferences mattered. I was a member of a thing called a family.