It is peculiar how quickly I forget the taste of a meal. The meal I most commonly forget is one I’ve eaten every other day for almost a decade. It is a combination of uncooked tofu, a handful of fresh spinach, and any leftover vegetables I’ve steamed, baked, or sautéed. Every once in a while I’ll add hummus or salsa to the mix, just for a different flavor. No matter what I add, though, the word to describe the meal is bland and that’s the word that runs through my mind whenever I realize I’m about to go home to eat: bland, bland, bland, it's time for The Bland Meal.
I first ate The Bland Meal when I started working full-time. I would pack it in the morning or, if I were feeling especially efficient, perhaps the night before. I’d go to the office fridge and retrieve The Bland Meal whenever it was time, it could have been anytime, ten-thirty or two-fifteen or dusk, even, on those days I’d forgotten about lunch, and I would bring it to my desk and pick away.
One time, I walked past a colleague’s desk with The Bland Meal in hand. He asked me if I thought his desk was clean, though it was more a passing thought than a question, but he asked me anyway. Maybe he asked because I just happened to be around or maybe he asked because I'd been there before, that is, been there on his first day, and he knew I'd been there long enough to know what would merit passing marks for a 'clean desk' audit and we had one of these 'clean desk' audits coming up and maybe he just wanted to be ready for it. Now, a 'clean desk' audit meant all the desks had to be clean or else or who knows or who cares and I looked at his desk which was covered in shredded lettuce and bread crumbs and paper wrapping from his Not So Bland Meal and I announced that it looked a lot like Revere Beach at low tide.
This announcement was met with far more laughter than I anticipated because I was anticipating no laughter. I’d never been to Revere or its beach. I just wanted to eat The Bland Meal at my desk so I could forget about it and do so without having to talk to anyone. I wasn’t trying to be clever or funny or interesting or anything else which would extend the conversation. But it was work and it was lunchtime and I suspect colleagues pay a little more attention to each other around lunchtime at work, a suspicion based on how some of my colleagues concluded I was a vegetarian, an erroneous point of view, perhaps, or maybe it was just an offhand remark, but either way a conclusion surely developed after a couple years of covertly watching me consume The Bland Meal.
My comment was overheard because everyone pays attention at lunchtime and a few minutes later I was getting emails claiming to have photos of Revere Beach at its lowest possible tide, a tide so low in some cases it resembled more desert than beach. I looked through the pictures and thought they all could have been from the beach. But how could I know, how could I even entertain a sense of resemblance about this place I'd never been before? I started on The Bland Meal and I guess it must have been pretty good. I cannot remember for sure how it tasted, though, because I always forget how The Bland Meal tastes. It is peculiar how I recognize the places I've never been yet forget the taste of a meal I’ve eaten so often before.
Usually, the moment I forget comes right after I remember; I remember what I’m having for lunch, I forget it will be good. I’ve forgotten but I remember to think bland, bland, bland, and consider ways to make the meal a little tastier. I run through options in my head for ways to add just a little extra flavor to the vegetables or consider possible side dishes, nothing too big, but just enough to help me look forward to The Bland Meal a little bit more.
At work, I used to hand someone a bit of cash and I’d have a slice of pizza or a side of fries or half a panini wrap to go with The Bland Meal. These days, jobless, I employ the same trick and I consider where I can exchange a couple of dollars for a bit of anticipation in the form of a small frozen pizza or a fast-food cheeseburger or a couple cups of yogurt. Sometimes, I just pick up a couple slices of bread. I’ll take one slice, put butter on half of it, and fold the bread over to make a pair of small butter sandwiches. At this point, I’ll remember, and think to myself ‘Ah, the traditional butter sandwich,’ or maybe, if it's one of those days, I’ll just say it aloud, quietly, a whisper drawing the thin line between what I'd chosen and what I'd lost.
I get these days from time to time, more so of late because I’m unemployed or it’s Sunday, and I’ll look up sometimes on these days and think wow, I have not said a word today and it’ll be ten-thirty or two-fifteen or dusk, even, on those days I’d forgotten to speak. This didn’t happen when I worked because I thought I needed the money and thus had roommates or maybe because I worked I had colleagues by default and it's hard to keep completely silent when always surrounded by people. I took all these people for granted and didn’t think much of the strange gift it is to have places where it is perfectly OK to articulate the occasional passing thought, perfectly normal to voice the offhand remark, because you never know, really, what it is that will make other people laugh.
When I make my butter sandwiches at home I suppose I could simply put butter on one slice of bread and put the other slice on top. This would achieve roughly the same effect as folding over two single slices. But I remember this isn’t the way it is done, this isn’t the proper method to achieve the right look for the sandwich, because it’s a proper thing, not just any old thing, but The Traditional Butter Sandwich, so named because I said it like that one time. I said it just like this – Ahh, The Traditional Butter Sandwich! – as if I were announcing the arrival of a long-anticipated guest to a crowded and waiting room, and my friends all laughed much louder than I expected because I wasn’t expecting any laughter at all.
My announcement happened at Conrad’s, a restaurant in downtown Norwood. I grew up in Norwood and knew about Conrad’s for a long time. I never suggested going because our family had its dinner-out routines and I preferred Chinese takeout myself and I usually forgot to remember Conrad’s when it came time to remember past meals. But eventually I did remember and now I always remember to go to Conrad’s to share a meal and have a little bit of conversation with the people whose presences I've always taken for granted.
The sandwiches don’t come out of the kitchen in their fully assembled glory. It requires imagination – or perhaps a conversational fluency with paninis – to finish the job. You break the recently thawed dinner roll in two, unwrap a piece of butter, and close the piece of bread around it. Then, you take your palms and you place the bread between them and you press it all together. This was the point I made my famous announcement, as I pressed, and this is the point I repeat it now, just for old times sake. I say it now because I'm pressing. I remember to say it because I didn’t expect any laughter for the first passing comment, it was just a thought out loud, the kind of thought spoken aloud when surrounded by friends or colleagues or family, the kind of passing thought I tend to have all the time when I’m alone, just a passing thought that with context would take its rightful place as an offhand remark.
Sometimes the comment gets a laugh. It is more a knowing laugh these days, though, reminding us all – yep, I remember, I was there – a needless reminder, really, since we are there in the moment and only there because we were there before. The comment confirms a shared history, implies a shared future. It could all be taken for granted, the sandwich and the history and the company, and this is appropriate because Conrad’s is the sort of place I go with those whose presence in Norwood I take for granted. I go with my friends who are around because I know they are in Norwood because they’ve been in Norwood or I’ll go with my dad because I know he’s in Norwood because he’s been in Norwood and we all order the same thing, the steak tip dinner, regardless of whether it is dusk or two-fifteen or ten-thirty, even.
We walk downtown as part of a dinner-out routine and don’t talk about how the steak tip meal is not quite good enough to go for alone. We try to remember to have the traditional sandwich and forget how it sometimes makes the rest of the meal a little difficult to finish. I don't even remember how the meal tastes, I suppose, because I'm always being told when my medium-rare steak was mixed up with another order. It's possible no one remembers how it tastes, exactly, but we take how good it will be for granted and, silently, acknowledge that the taste doesn't matter much at all anymore. The meal could be rare or well-done, it could be tasty or bland, but we would still anticipate the next trip back. It's not such a strange thing, really, to forget the taste of the meals I've eaten so often, not so strange at all when I consider all the people I've eaten these meals with and remember how quickly I've forgotten what so many of them were like.
