First Picnic

It was our very first picnic date and I was quite nervous. Barbara was the lifetime girl for me and there were hopeful signs the feeling was mutual. So this was an important day, sandwich-wise.

I was willing, if she’d eventually say “yes”, to eat baloney or packaged olive loaf sandwiches on stale white bread for the next 30 years if necessary, but “otherwise” would be even better.

I was a young engineer and tended to think mathematically. I figured, with a mid-echelon career, I’d be eating almost 8,000 sandwiches for lunch at my desk before retirement.

I tensed up as Barbara opened the big wicker basket, reached in and began unwrapping a package. “Pumpernickel !” I shouted, stifling a giggle.

“Yes, and I hope you like braunschweiger,” Barbara said. “Some people don’t, but with Dijon mustard….”

“Isn’t that (sniff, sniff) a dill pickle?” I interrupted.

“Straight out of the barrel,” Barbara replied. “Is that the kind of sandwich you like? You did mention once you’re very particular about sandwiches.”

“Barbmmmlvlovmmyouwimy!” I replied through a mouthful of a magnificent delicatessancy. I swallowed, apologized and said, “I’ve loved you with all my heart and now I love you even more!”

We lived (and lunched) happily ever after.