Sandwich fillings and condiments filled every drawer and cabinet in our kitchen to the brim. This was to be expected; after all, I was known as the “Sandwich Connoisseur” in our house.

My family loved every single one I made, but moments after eating my ham and cheese sandwich, my mom asked for water. 

“It’s good as usual. The bread is just a bit dry.”

I took it as a flaw that needed to be fixed immediately. I went to the bakery and bought a different kind of bread in an attempt to elevate my family’s contentment.

Their eyes lit up as they bit into the new, softer texture of the buns, sending a rush of pride through me. But as my dad handed out his “good job,” my ears caught the tone of a “this is so much better than the last one.” 

It made me realize that my room for improvement was as big as the local market. 

I found that color highlighted a fresher appearance, so I arranged some tomatoes, lettuce, and onions in a deliberate array. To balance the vegetables, I incorporated beef for a juicier, more savory bite. Finally, I enclosed everything with warm, grilled buns.

When I presented my newest masterpiece, a tone I could not quite name echoed throughout the kitchen.

“You moved on to burgers now?”

They chewed and savored the meal I never intended to make. They loved it anyway. And so did I.

But even with their declaration of satisfaction, the possibility that this love for novelty might be the result of discontentment ate away at me. Could they be hinting that my previous attempts at sandwiches were lacking? Should I have made burgers from the beginning?

As I washed the dishes, their satisfied faces reflected on the glassware. I held each one delicately, afraid that a tiny slip would shatter their confidence in my expertise. I could only hope that my next attempt would be better. 

How many more recipes do I have to go through to finally make the perfect sandwich? 

- Russell Ognes 

(Illustrated by Bea Katrina Fulgencio/FEU Advocate)