I liked that story. I could just about feel the inner emotions and curiosities that the sandwich maker had for the cop. Maybe I have been in a similar situation before and don't remember it.
Beautiful story. Thanks for this. I had to laugh at the onions. I have an older lady friend whom I meet every other week or so for lunch and Scrabble. She makes me lunch--won't let me lift a finger--and then she demolishes me at the game. It's sustenance and therapy in one go. However, this wonderful Lithuanian woman who grew up in Baltimore loves some raw onions--on everything. I try to explain that I live with people, people who will smell me coming a mile away. Now, I say nothing, just remove the bulk of the onions, eat a few slices for good measure. The bad breath is worth it.
Wonderful story. I’ve been a sandwich maker most of my life, but I must admit I never ever put raw onions on a sandwich. They have to been cooked down with a little balsamic vinegar and sugar. Then they are magic on a sandwich!!
I have been married for 50+ years to a wonderful blued-eyed blond that caught me off guard. Still, when I go to my home town, I hope I will run in to that brown-eyed beauty I was too scared to ask out back before I was caught.
Found the original piece...posted July 31, 2023. It is interesting to see the two pieces side-by-side. Must admit I'm not sure which one I like best.
Substack is an interesting place. I'm not a writer and have only really read final (as in published) works.
It is weird for me to see "how the sausage" is made...I guess I've always romanticised it as a magical process but it's really like any piece of art... working and reworking till it gets "just so".
Whenever I hear sandwich maker, I cannot help thinking of a passage from Douglas Adams’ Mostly Harmless where our hero, Arthur Dent, alone and depressed, finally settles on the planet Lemuella and finds his true calling as a sandwich maker:
“There is an art to the business of making sandwiches which it is given to few ever to find the time to explore in depth. It is a simple task, but the opportunities for satisfaction are many and profound: choosing the right bread, for instance. The Sandwich Maker had spent many months in daily consultation and experiment with Grarp the Baker and eventually they had created a loaf of exactly the consistency that was dense enough to slice thinly and neatly, while still being light, moist and having the best of that fine nutty flavor which best enhanced the savor of roast Perfectly Normal Beast flesh.
“There was also the geometry of the slice to be refined: the precise relationships between the width and height of the slice and also its thickness which would give the proper sense of bulk and weight to the finished sandwich -- here again, lightness was a virtue, but so too were firmness, generosity and that promise of succulence and savor that is the hallmark of a truly intense sandwich experience.
“The proper tools, of course, were crucial, and many were the days that the Sandwich Maker, when not engaged with the Baker at his oven, would spend with Strinder the Tool Maker, weighing and balancing knives, taking them to the forge and back again. Suppleness, strength, keenness of edge, length and balance were all enthusiastically debated, theories put forward, tested, refined, and many was the evening when the Sandwich Maker and the Tool Maker could be seen silhouetted against the light of the setting sun and the Tool Maker's forge making slow sweeping movements through the air, trying one knife after another, comparing the weight of this one with the balance of another, the suppleness of a third and the handle binding of a fourth.
“Three knives altogether were required. First, there was the knife for the slicing of the bread: a firm, authoritative blade, which imposed a clear and defining will on a loaf. Then there was the butter-spreading knife, which was a whippy little number but still with a firm backbone to it. Early versions had been a little too whippy, but now the combination of flexibility with a core of strength was exactly right to achieve the maximum smoothness and grace of spread.
“The chief among the knives, of course, was the carving knife. This was the knife that would not merely impose its will on the medium through which it moved, as did the bread knife. It must work with it, be guided by the grain of the meat, to achieve slices of the most exquisite consistency and translucency, that would slide away in filmy folds from the main hunk of meat. The Sandwich Maker would then flip each sheet with a smooth flick of the wrist onto the beautifully proportioned lower bread slice, trim it with four deft strokes and then at last perform the magic that the children of the village so longed to gather round and watch with rapt attention and wonder. With just four more dexterous flips of the knife he would assemble the trimmings into a perfectly fitting jigsaw of pieces on top of the primary slice. For every sandwich the size and shape of the trimmings were different, but the Sandwich Maker would always effortlessly and without hesitation assemble them into a pattern which fitted perfectly. A second layer of meat and a second layer of trimmings, and the main act of creation would now be accomplished.”
I didn't remember that from Hitchhiker's! It's so great. I love that book. I need to re-read it and maybe use an epigraph at the beginning of my story.
Are you suuuuuuure that story is fiction? Your writing always seems so real to me. I can picture the deli; i can smell the onions (my eyes are weeping for your eyes).
Sherman Alexie, you were the first writer whose newsletter I decided to pay for. Not because you teach me writing tricks or offer special “value”, but because you give so generously the greatest value of all: the beauty and comfort of your writing. Every time I read you, I am reminded, viscerally, why I love writing so much, and what kind of writing inspires me. Every poem, every story is the most beautiful present in my inbox. And every time, I am so grateful that your writing exists, and that I’m lucky to read it!
I once married a half Native American Mohawk. My daughter is now registered to her tribe. She is so beautiful—looks more Native than her father did. It saddens me to imagine her beautiful blood be diluted.
Your story is captivating, great style to your writing. Thank you 🙏
Dilution of blood is only an issue if you believe in blood quantum, which I understand that you have in the USA. In the Southern hemisphere First People's in Australia and Aotearoa look to ancestors. You can have 3.25% blood and identify as indigenous. Learn your language, know where your country is. Particularly important for the stolen generations.
I know. I was clumsy in my writing for which I apologise. Late night !The point I was trying to make is that for first people's in the Southern hemisphere,a single ancestor, a drop of blood, is enough to identify as indigenous.
Important when populations have been attempted to be 'bred out' or totally annihilated.
Australia & Aotearoa were colonised very recently compared to other countries.
I suppose ‘saddens’ and ‘diluted’ weren’t the right words to express myself. Let me rephrase.
It aches, a little, that her children, and generations following might not have the beautiful color of her skin, her thick brown hair, her deep and dark chestnut eyes, the underlying wisdom she seems to carry—an old soul, maybe—her connection to the universe. However, I’m sure they will be beautiful nonetheless, if they ever exist, and loved equally.
I liked that story. I could just about feel the inner emotions and curiosities that the sandwich maker had for the cop. Maybe I have been in a similar situation before and don't remember it.
Yes, sounds like a wonderful bargain!
Beautiful story. Thanks for this. I had to laugh at the onions. I have an older lady friend whom I meet every other week or so for lunch and Scrabble. She makes me lunch--won't let me lift a finger--and then she demolishes me at the game. It's sustenance and therapy in one go. However, this wonderful Lithuanian woman who grew up in Baltimore loves some raw onions--on everything. I try to explain that I live with people, people who will smell me coming a mile away. Now, I say nothing, just remove the bulk of the onions, eat a few slices for good measure. The bad breath is worth it.
Wonderful story. I’ve been a sandwich maker most of my life, but I must admit I never ever put raw onions on a sandwich. They have to been cooked down with a little balsamic vinegar and sugar. Then they are magic on a sandwich!!
I love onions but, but like you, never raw.
I have been married for 50+ years to a wonderful blued-eyed blond that caught me off guard. Still, when I go to my home town, I hope I will run in to that brown-eyed beauty I was too scared to ask out back before I was caught.
!!!!
Oooh, the stories that so many married men are remembering while reading this and keeping so desperately to ourselves…
Hahahahahhaha....married women, too.
So very kind of you. I love doing this Substack. Thank you.
Found the original piece...posted July 31, 2023. It is interesting to see the two pieces side-by-side. Must admit I'm not sure which one I like best.
Substack is an interesting place. I'm not a writer and have only really read final (as in published) works.
It is weird for me to see "how the sausage" is made...I guess I've always romanticised it as a magical process but it's really like any piece of art... working and reworking till it gets "just so".
I've never been one to share rough drafts with my agents and editors, let alone with readers! Substack has changed me!
You are, indeed, braver than I. Truly appreciate you.
Whenever I hear sandwich maker, I cannot help thinking of a passage from Douglas Adams’ Mostly Harmless where our hero, Arthur Dent, alone and depressed, finally settles on the planet Lemuella and finds his true calling as a sandwich maker:
“There is an art to the business of making sandwiches which it is given to few ever to find the time to explore in depth. It is a simple task, but the opportunities for satisfaction are many and profound: choosing the right bread, for instance. The Sandwich Maker had spent many months in daily consultation and experiment with Grarp the Baker and eventually they had created a loaf of exactly the consistency that was dense enough to slice thinly and neatly, while still being light, moist and having the best of that fine nutty flavor which best enhanced the savor of roast Perfectly Normal Beast flesh.
“There was also the geometry of the slice to be refined: the precise relationships between the width and height of the slice and also its thickness which would give the proper sense of bulk and weight to the finished sandwich -- here again, lightness was a virtue, but so too were firmness, generosity and that promise of succulence and savor that is the hallmark of a truly intense sandwich experience.
“The proper tools, of course, were crucial, and many were the days that the Sandwich Maker, when not engaged with the Baker at his oven, would spend with Strinder the Tool Maker, weighing and balancing knives, taking them to the forge and back again. Suppleness, strength, keenness of edge, length and balance were all enthusiastically debated, theories put forward, tested, refined, and many was the evening when the Sandwich Maker and the Tool Maker could be seen silhouetted against the light of the setting sun and the Tool Maker's forge making slow sweeping movements through the air, trying one knife after another, comparing the weight of this one with the balance of another, the suppleness of a third and the handle binding of a fourth.
“Three knives altogether were required. First, there was the knife for the slicing of the bread: a firm, authoritative blade, which imposed a clear and defining will on a loaf. Then there was the butter-spreading knife, which was a whippy little number but still with a firm backbone to it. Early versions had been a little too whippy, but now the combination of flexibility with a core of strength was exactly right to achieve the maximum smoothness and grace of spread.
“The chief among the knives, of course, was the carving knife. This was the knife that would not merely impose its will on the medium through which it moved, as did the bread knife. It must work with it, be guided by the grain of the meat, to achieve slices of the most exquisite consistency and translucency, that would slide away in filmy folds from the main hunk of meat. The Sandwich Maker would then flip each sheet with a smooth flick of the wrist onto the beautifully proportioned lower bread slice, trim it with four deft strokes and then at last perform the magic that the children of the village so longed to gather round and watch with rapt attention and wonder. With just four more dexterous flips of the knife he would assemble the trimmings into a perfectly fitting jigsaw of pieces on top of the primary slice. For every sandwich the size and shape of the trimmings were different, but the Sandwich Maker would always effortlessly and without hesitation assemble them into a pattern which fitted perfectly. A second layer of meat and a second layer of trimmings, and the main act of creation would now be accomplished.”
I didn't remember that from Hitchhiker's! It's so great. I love that book. I need to re-read it and maybe use an epigraph at the beginning of my story.
It’s the way he treats it so seriously that makes it great.
“. . .a truly intense sandwich experience.”
yes!!!!
Such great storytelling with many beautiful mini stories. The last line…perfect!
Thank you, Michelle.
I thought I read it in Ten Little Indians. But maybe I read it here at an earlier time?
Yes, I posted the memoir version a while back.
A memoir version was posted here. Different to this fictionalized account.
Thanks muchly. It was familiar, and I thought I'd already read it. I guess I did, sort of. Appreciate the note of clarification.
Are you suuuuuuure that story is fiction? Your writing always seems so real to me. I can picture the deli; i can smell the onions (my eyes are weeping for your eyes).
Thank you.
As I said in the intro, this story began as memoir. I did work in a deli and I had a crush on a cop who was a regular customer.
Brilliant. I can smell the onion… we (whatever colour) are with you all the way
Thanks!
Sherman Alexie, you were the first writer whose newsletter I decided to pay for. Not because you teach me writing tricks or offer special “value”, but because you give so generously the greatest value of all: the beauty and comfort of your writing. Every time I read you, I am reminded, viscerally, why I love writing so much, and what kind of writing inspires me. Every poem, every story is the most beautiful present in my inbox. And every time, I am so grateful that your writing exists, and that I’m lucky to read it!
I once married a half Native American Mohawk. My daughter is now registered to her tribe. She is so beautiful—looks more Native than her father did. It saddens me to imagine her beautiful blood be diluted.
Your story is captivating, great style to your writing. Thank you 🙏
Dilution of blood is only an issue if you believe in blood quantum, which I understand that you have in the USA. In the Southern hemisphere First People's in Australia and Aotearoa look to ancestors. You can have 3.25% blood and identify as indigenous. Learn your language, know where your country is. Particularly important for the stolen generations.
Blood quatum and percentages are the same thing...
I know. I was clumsy in my writing for which I apologise. Late night !The point I was trying to make is that for first people's in the Southern hemisphere,a single ancestor, a drop of blood, is enough to identify as indigenous.
Important when populations have been attempted to be 'bred out' or totally annihilated.
Australia & Aotearoa were colonised very recently compared to other countries.
I suppose ‘saddens’ and ‘diluted’ weren’t the right words to express myself. Let me rephrase.
It aches, a little, that her children, and generations following might not have the beautiful color of her skin, her thick brown hair, her deep and dark chestnut eyes, the underlying wisdom she seems to carry—an old soul, maybe—her connection to the universe. However, I’m sure they will be beautiful nonetheless, if they ever exist, and loved equally.
That's a beautiful post and your love for your daughter and respect for her possible choices is evident.
Ngā mihi.
Thank you 🙏
Really loved this! Also, Republic is one of my favorite Eastern WA towns to visit. So different from Seattle in every way - but those pine forests! ❤️