My Ham Sandwich

                                       My Ham Sandwich


It was a simple lunch at a small delicattessen with friends. I ordered a Ham sandwich and a coke. We talked, we laughed, my friend Craig poured sugar and salt into a pile on the table and snorted it – it was a seemingly normal lunch with friends. Our food arrived and I realized I had once again forgotten to order my sandwich without mayonnaise. There are few foods I hate, but Mayo and raw tomatoes are at the top of the list. The offending condiment was oozing out from between two slices of ham in the centre of the sandwich halves ever so slightly. Routinely, I took the first half of the sandwich and opened it to reveal the goopy mayo making its way into the cracks of the cheap processed ham-meat. There was no time to waste. With my knife I began to scrape it off, a careful art I had perfected over my many years of mayonnaise-hating. I slapped the sandwich back together, and opened up the second half. I took my blade to the meat and once more scraped off the mayo, wiping it on my napkin. I was about to reassemble the sandwich, but stopped suddenly. All went quiet, yet my friends continued to converse, the waitress continued to work, people continued to pass by the window, but I was trapped in wonder. I stared at the meat, and I realized that I was staring at the Son of God. Jesus was in my Ham sandwich. I looked around me, to see if there would be another sign, an indication of the Almighty’s presence – like flickering lights, or a giant staircase lined with angels and gold, beckoning me to ascend to God’s Throne room so he could give me his message. But there was nothing. Only the quiet chatter of the deli customers, and my mind saying to me “Holy shit Jesus is NOT in my ham sandwich!”
         The face was undeniably accurate. The outline of each feature - the solemn eyes, the scruffy beard, the long, wispy hair - was drawn carefully by threads of processed meat that made up the customary patch of discoloured ham found on every cheap store-bought slice. My sandwich mirrored the Shroud of Turin, and I could do nothing but stare into the humble eyes of my Ham-Jesus. I looked up at my friends. “Jesus is in my sandwich.” I said. Craig laughed, but Linda and David looked at me curiously. I spun my plate so they could see the Christian martyr in all his hammy-glory. “Damn,” said David, “Jesus is in your ham sandwich.” And Linda nodded and smiled, then stole the pickle off my plate. Bitch.
         I thought of calling the Vatican. I thought of going to the press, naming myself a prophet, saying that God spoke to me, starting my own religion, and becoming a millionaire like that guy who founded Scientology.
         Of all people, of all places, Jesus had shown himself to me, in a ham sandwich. It was a moment I will never forget, a feeling that can never be matched. And I wondered why? Why me? Why now? Why a Ham Sandwich? And then I realized. I realized its meaning, its purpose. I realized I had paid $8.50 for it.
         So I slapped the sandwich back together, and ate it. It was the most delicious ham sandwich I have ever had.
God flavoured.