“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.”