Miracle Whip Memories

It was never much.

At the time it was indulgent.

Pink mystery meat, cold to the touch.

Encircled by red banding, permanently bent.

Thin sliced or thick had no impact.

A sharp knife to mark the middle,

X marks the spot and keeps it flat.

High heat, the only temp we had, simple pan no griddle.

Cold pan is the key.

A cold pan and time.

Don’t flip it too early.

Wait for the edge to darken, it'll be fine.

Wait for the sizzles to crescendo.

Wait for the smell of bitterness, a sensory memento.

Flip, and don’t be misled.

The wait continues, no time to rejoice.

While you wait, find mayo and bread.

Miracle whip is the only choice.

One piece of white bread, maybe two,

never the end because that would be odd.

Never the butt piece, I promise it’s true.

That belonged to the dog.

When it's singed just enough, needing no more flips.

Add mystery meat to bread.

Alone or accompanied by 99 cents of chips.

Bologna sandwiches, always there to keep me fed.

A childhood indulgence masking adulthood necessity.

Now an adulthood indulgence that is part of me.