How To Make a Tomato Sandwich The Week Before Your Kid Leaves For College

Cut two slices from the loaf of ciabatta (her favorite) that’s sitting on the counter. Wonder if the dorm dining hall is stocked with ciabatta. Pop the bread in the toaster and contemplate the perfect setting — apply too light a toast and the bread is soft and unstructured, but too heavy and it is brittle, easily crumbled. Feel an unusual amount of pride when the bread emerges a perfect golden hue. You guessed right.

Put the toast on a plate, grab a fat clove of garlic and your sharpest knife — the same knife she leaves smeared with avocado on a cutting board until you nag her to clean it up. Question whether you’ll miss the sight of that avocado-streaked knife or if you will feel relief at not being the cleaning witch quite as frequently. Know you’ll miss the dirty knife. Cut the garlic in half, then rub the cut side along the toast, leaving a slight essence of garlic: subtle, unseen, but a vital component of the sandwich.

Walk over to the bowl full of plump, ruby-hued tomatoes from your neighbor’s garden and select a few for the sandwich. Pause. Marvel at how lucky you are to have been given such a gift. Slice the tomatoes and line them up on the toast. Notice how one tomato seems to want to go its own way, sliding out of line. Decide to let it go. 

Reach for a red onion and take a couple of passes at it with with the knife, cutting it paper thin. Try not to cry.

Drape the onion slices over the tomatoes. Head to the cupboard and select your favorite olive oil — the really good stuff that’s saved for special occasions. Judiciously drizzle the olive oil, taking great care not to smother the toast. Sprinkle salt over the tomatoes, noticing how the smallest gesture can bring the whole sandwich together.

Walk away from the kitchen with your plate of food, leaving behind the unused ingredients, the oil and the seasoning. Your dish is complete, no more tinkering. Sit at the table and savor your creation.