Fat Bread

“Would you like a half of a turkey sandwich?” I yell to Mom from the kitchen as I dragged out plates and sandwich ingredients from the frig.

“Sure,” she called back.  “Are you cutting it?”

“Cutting what?  The turkey?”

“No, the bread.”

I paused next to the kitchen counter, juggling a package of turkey slices, another of Smoked Gouda slices, a jar of mayonnaise, a head of lettuce and a loaf of 12-grain bread.  “The bread?” I asked loudly.

“Yes, are you cutting it or getting it?”

I dumped the lunch makings onto the counter and walked out of the kitchen and into the living room.  “What do you mean am I cutting it.  It’s bread.”

“But the last time you made me a sandwich, you cut it too thick and I could hardly bite down on it,” she explained, opening her mouth wide, then loudly chomping her teeth together three or four times for emphasis.

“Mom,” I sighed, “it’s just a loaf from the store.  It’s already sliced.”

“Oh, okay.  Then it must have been a different loaf the last time.  It was almost too fat to eat.”

“It’s the same bread we always get,” I said, turning to go back into the kitchen.

“Then you probably got a mistake.”

“A mistake?” I asked, pausing in the kitchen doorway.  “What do you mean, a mistake?”

“You know, a mistake.  Like the checker people didn’t check close enough and fat slices got put in the package.”

“Yup, that must be it,” I laughed.  “Those damn checker people.  And I’ll bet they probably want $15 an hour too, just like the McDonald’s people.”

“Well that’s not right.  If they aren’t smart enough to know a fat slice of bread from a skinny one, then they don’t deserve a raise.”

fat bread

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