Big Yellow Mustard

I close my eyes and I see two huge slices of fluffy white bread, slices of turkey, provolone, lettuce and condiments falling onto them like it’s a god damned Subway (Eat Fresh!) commercial. I open my eyes and the guy at the bodega hands me a wrap. It’s ok. It’s what I do now. I’m not ashamed. This is what I’ve become.
Let me rewind this sad narrative to a simpler time – 2011 – when I’d eat a peanut butter, honey, and banana on whole wheat for breakfast and live in my ignorant bliss. It was the highlight of my day. The rest of which would be filled with menial work, anxiety about the future, and just enough funds to buy a cookie. I’d spent the first half of the year very sick and underemployed, and by that August, I (or rather, my parents) decided that I needed some help.
I visited a doctor in Virginia for four days of extensive tests. I was both relieved and filled with dread to figure out what I already knew: my body had basically no immune system left, and I was allergic to everything good. In this context, “good” means: sugar, wheat, yeast (brewer’s and baker’s), rye, eggs, dairy… you name it, I probably should avoid it.
My parents had cut wheat out of their diet a few years prior to this, and I’d already had the sense that it made me feel bad (I stopped drinking beer in college), but I finally resolved to work hard at getting my health back. So my diet changed, and the easiest thing to cut out was bread, because yeast gives me hives, and I found that I craved sugar and dairy a whole lot more. I’m not a monster, though, and since I’m not deathly allergic to any of the items listed above, I’ve begun to allow myself a number of intentional slip-ups a year. As my health improved, I cozied up to wheat in small doses again, but sandwiches are the one thing that have exited my diet for good.
In losing the sandwich, I’ve gained a deeper appreciation for the wonders that it is. Like Liz Lemon, I believe it is the most beautiful meal there is in this world; its ease, versatility, simplicity. I know Dan Pashman would fight me on this, but I consider many things to be a sandwich: bagels (yearly slip-up: 4/10/15 at Baz), hot dogs (yearly slip-up: 5/3/15 at a Mets game), burgers (date??? I don’t know but it was at Corner Bistro and it was worth it). I’m not “gluten-free” but I am now one of those ass holes who asks them to “hold the bun.” My philosophy is that some other warm, loving stomach will eat my bread and provide it with the attention it needs. Why waste it?
So, yes, I love wraps, and since the first time I ate the Buffalo Blue from Wawa all those years ago in middle school I will never stop loving them. (I know, I actually am a monster.) But I remember how good pastrami tastes on rye; and DUH if I find myself in a diner in New Jersey of course I’m getting a grilled cheese with a pickle and fries (because you can’t take it with you, folks…). So, my point is this, Joni Mitchell was right: you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. Appreciate your sandwich habit, and enjoy every hoagie for those of us who can’t. I’ll be over there having a taco and living my truth.

Galia Abramson appreciates steak and ice cream and all her tweets are explicit endorsements.