Crossing Atwells at the church.
Aisles too narrow for stroller.
Tiny hands smudging the deli display case.
Never “turkey” – always “turkey breast”.
Three flights back up.
A slathering from a butter knife, dripping with that savory spread, so intoxicatingly yellow.
Glass jar, no squeeze.
Today’s lunch consisted of Tofurkey on the last two slices from my sister (brought loaf over earlier in the week, see earlier post).
While at work, my mid-day meal certainly wasn’t from Carl and Dave’s Deli (RIP), but with the French’s mustard squirts (sadly, glass has since been retired) I could barely tell the difference.