There is a restaurant…this must have the correct inflection. There is a restaurant in San Diego that makes the best crab sandwich.
It’s a simple sandwich. Here it is: Begin with two slices of great sourdough bread, slather liberally with tartar sauce, add crab fresh from its shell. Done. Period.
Iced tea and lemon slices finish off the perfect meal.
Okay, this is Easter—I’ll tell you about the first part of the day in a minute, but I’m stuck on the sandwich.
After dropping my grandson off from the jaunt we had just taken, I drove to the fish market to get fish and chips for my grandson, clam chowder for Neil, and I decided to try a for a crab sandwich. (I’ve attempted to at that establishment before, but they didn’t know what I was talking about.)
“Do you have sourdough bread? I asked the girl taking my order.
“Yes,” she said.
“Could you make a crab sandwich for me?
“Sure.”
“Oh, you have them?!”
“They’re made with crab cakes,”
“Oh, no. I just want fresh crab, not toasted bread, plain.” (They had tartar sauce in dispensers.)
Well, we have,” she motioned with her hands, “a sort of loaf.”
Not just fresh crab?” (It’s in the display case.)
No, that stumped her.
“Okay I said I’ll take a crab cocktail.”
I thought, I’m going to beat this, and when I picked up the hot portion of the meal, where the fish and chips were dispersed, I asked the cook if he had sourdough bread?
“Sure,” he said.
“Could I have a slice?”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that.”
I felt like a bag lady who just asked for a handout, but I had just dropped 40 bucks into the card slider gizmo where we pay for most things now.
Instead, I drove down the street and bought a baguette—it wasn’t sourdough, but since I wanted the fish and chips hot when I got home, I didn’t drive farther.
At home I put together a sandwich on baguette slices, but it wasn’t my dream sandwich.
Guess I’ll have to drive to San Diego or make my own damn sandwich to my specifications.
Maybe I need to hear the barking of sea lions to make it authentic.
That was our Easter feast.
Before that lunch, my Grandson and I went to Church—not a regular occurrence in our household, but he wanted to try a Christian Church, so we went together.
God wasn’t there. He was visiting someplace else.
The choir sang with their noses in a hymnal, many songs, not old gospel favorites either.
The minister, for some reason, gave a shout-out to nonbinary people. Okay, so you’re progressive, but it seemed inappropriate for an Easter Sunday celebration.
That annoyed my grandson, who said he could have honored many others.
Neither of us got any intellectual meat to chew on. It was all gristle. Usually, even with the most boring of sermons, there is something of value. This tells me if you don’t get anything of value from me here on this site, give it up.
I left the church with David Pomeranz’s song running through my head. I’m used to services closing by standing, holding hands, singing Pomeranze’s song, It’s in every one of us…open up both your eyes.” Those people had one eye closed and the other half asleep.
My grandson and I had fun driving home, though, because we agreed with each other’s evaluation of the service—no philosophical arguments. We began on the same page. It was the best failure that ended successfully.
We’ll have to work our way down the list of churches.
I wonder where God was this morning. Oh, I brought Him/She/ It in with me. I just didn’t feel connected. But then maybe God, the Great Spirit of the Mountains, Rivers and Valleys was out hiking. It’s a gorgeous day.
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