Meatloaf

I would like to write a post about meatloaf today, but instead, I will frantically count beans until late in the night because I'm dealing with multiple accounting emergencies. (STAT! That journal doesn't balance!)

Anyway, for now, here is a poem about meatloaf:

Today for lunch I made myself a

cold meatloaf sandwich on lightly

toasted white bread with American

cheese, ketchup, mayonnaise, lettuce.

This is a quite a strange combination

of ingredients to put on bread I think.

My sandwiches don’t often warrant scrutiny

before being chewed up and washed down,

Except maybe for tofu, avocado

and sprouts in a pita pouch. Veggie

Sandwiches always make me think

I am doing right by eating this mess -

Not, damn this is good, but

Yep, plenty of vitamins here...

I’ll live longer by eating this way...

But meatloaf sandwiches are different.

I learned about meatloaf sandwiches

from my father who loved them best.

Even as he was eating his Sunday hot

meatloaf dinner, he was planning lunch

For the next day when he could

pull the ingredients from the frig,

build the sandwich of his dreams,

sit alone in the kitchen and savor.

Nowadays I think brightly of my father

with every meatloaf sandwich I eat.

My mother made BLTs, and the smell

of bacon frying is forever tied to her.

My mother’s mother made egg salad and

tomato soup when she watched over me.

My father’s mother made marmalade toast –

one slice for her and one for the dog.

But meatloaf is the stuff of patriarchs.

My father used to make idle threats

to cut off the arm of anyone who dared

reach for the last piece of meatloaf.

To deny him his meatloaf sandwich

was to risk amputation by butter knife.

I’d pretend at dinner to pilfer the leftovers,

sliding my hand stealthily toward the prize.

Wham! Down would come that dull knife.

I would giggle uncontrollably then try again.

Such warm memories from a cold sandwich.

I get no such joy from ham and cheese on rye.

-Jack McGeehin

(lifted from Peeling Wallpaper)