The other night, I thought I might like to have a roast beef sandwich — comfort food. So I went to the kitchen (this is about 1 a.m.) and I got out what I might like. The fixings: roast beef (deli style, nothing fancy), mayonnaise, some provolone cheese (I used two slices!) and a load of Dijon mustard. The mustard was an attempt at the culinary arts, though I’m not sure what being Dijon means for a mustard. Is it more refined than yellow? It is Walmart brand, but still tastes like it’s doing something for the sandwich. A bit of tang to dazzle the taste buds amidst all that beef and bread. I tossed all of it onto a plate and headed to the living room.
I returned to my spot on the couch with the sandwich, and switched the TV over to Netflix. Not that, not that, I’ve seen that, I love that but not right now, why don’t I try something new, that sounds awful. Looks to be a sobster. The one where the guy refuses to admit that he likes the girl until it’s almost too late, but then she realizes that she loves him too, and the audience acts surprised at the both of them. Press play.
An hour later, and I’m choking. Harry has met Sally, but then he went coy so Sally met Romeo to move on and elsewhere, and also make Harry jealous (she was settling). Harry, meanwhile, is with Juliet and not enjoying himself. The sex is great, but why in the world is he thinking of Sally? He’s racking his brain, interrogating his heart to find the truth, what is the truth? In the ultimate epiphany of the Hollywood tradition, Harry realizes he’s in love with Sally. He leaves Juliet and is on his way to her. Should he let her go? Sally’s ready to go, but where art her Romeo? It’s the big moment, and I can’t swallow. In an effort to cry (or not to), the compression of my throat grows. The sandwich has stuck its way to the sides of my esophagus as a result, and now I’m wheezing.
I hustle to the kitchen to take short, painful gulps of water to wash down the mass of sandwich in my throat. It all goes down in two or three drinks. Cold beef doesn’t go down easy, perhaps I should’ve used more Dijon mustard to ease the way. My eyes are still watering, and a lot. I blink, and catch my breath, but my mind tells my body it’s not done.
I’m crying. Is it because Harry is too late for Sally? That Juliet was tossed to the side? That Sally is settling for Romeo, but I know she doesn’t really want to be with him. Maybe there was something in the Dijon mustard that wasn’t so good, or perhaps the mayonnaise was expired. You’ve got to be careful with mayo, its tricky. Same with beef. Maybe because it was cold? It couldn’t have been the movie, I’d seen renditions of it countless times. On the couch with my mother, over leftovers. One after the other — Seventeen Candles, The Lunch Bunch, When Harry Left Sally, How To Marry A Guy In 2 Days. Have you ever cried over roast beef?
When I was younger, there were moments during the day, usually on Sundays, when the whole house would settle down. My mother would put away the pot roast, potatoes and carrots, and shoo us all away for a nap. An hour or two later, in the stillness of my room, I’d hover in the quiet observation of that moment when a cloud would move and unveil the sun, revealing all of the dust specks in the air, just floating. It would never take long, but my mother would come find me, awake, and waiting for her. “15 Going On 50?”
“Sure, took you long enough.”
“I’ll get the leftovers.”
We’d meet on the couch. Her bright, me bleary-eyed. She’d put a plate in front of me — roast beef slathered with yellow mustard. We’d start the movie, whichever selected variation of that same old story, and between bites of beef, we’d cry anyway and pretend not to notice the other in the quiet of the credits.
As I grew older, I got tired of crying, tired of beef. “It’s good for you. It will make you tough,” she told me.
I didn’t want to be tough. I wanted to watch documentaries and eat tofu. I’d outgrown Harry, Sally, 15 year olds, Romeo and Juliet. I’d outgrown her, and I’d outgrown eating the same potted roast each Sunday afternoon. It felt safe, controlled, like a recycled movie plot. Where was the spontaneity?
Maybe I didn’t cry over a roast beef sandwich. Maybe it was Harry, Sally, or maybe it was Juliet. Maybe it was the memory of my mother, the spontaneity of choking on roast beef, a comfort food.
Philip Runia 