It was Ryan’s idea to buy the hoagie buns. It was Saturday. We were sunburned. And sometimes Ryan comes up with these ideas that suddenly make all the hunger and pain and personal poverty in our lives go away.
“Hoagies,” he said, and it rolled off his tongue.
I didn’t even have to say yes. He knew that I knew that we both knew that it was a very good idea.
We scootered to Smith’s. (Because we’re spoiled by a father-in-law who lends us things like scooters.)
We found the hoagie buns and we bought them with no regrets.
We scootered home.
We made the hoagies. They were lovely: Mayonnaise–if you don’t like mayonnaise because it’s fattening, you’re boring. If you don’t like mayonnaise because it doesn’t taste good, I will respect you, but I will never understand you. Lettuce. Turkey. Ham. Honey mustard. Red wine vinegar. Cucumbers. Cucumber ranch dressing. Onions. Tomatoes. CHEESE. If you don’t like cheese, you’re wrong, unless you’re allergic, which is, in a way, also wrong.
They were lovely hoagies and we loved them, we loved them, we love(d) them. . . . . . . .
Hoagies, Hoagies, lovely Hoagies,
We ate you Saturday and Monday and today for lunch.
Now we are sad because all six of you are gone. (Least favorite word in our household: Gone.)
Why do you have to be gone, Hoagies?
Why can’t we have you, lovely Hoagies, and eat you too?
Lovely Hoagies, Hoagies, Hoagies,
Lovely you were, Hoagies,
Hoagies, lovely you are.