How to Pay $7.50 for Bread and Ham (and Still Be Happy)
By the summer of 1992, Christina and I were full steam ahead—we were all in, like peas and carrots.
Burnaby Mountain Park, just a short drive from Simon Fraser University, became our favorite escape. Christina kept an old green sleeping bag in her car—once for picnics with her dog Sam—that doubled as our picnic blanket. It was more than a blanket; it was our magic carpet. Lying there after lunch, we’d have the sweetest, most tender conversations. That’s where I learned about Christina’s deepest thoughts, her heroes, and her dreams.
Because I spent nearly every night with her, I rarely cooked for myself anymore. Instead, I bought lunch and persuaded Christina to come with me, wherever the wind took us—on campus, in town, it didn’t matter. The food wasn’t important; her company was what fed me.
One day:
“Christina, can you go for lunch now? I can wait if you’re not ready.”
“No, this is a good time. Did you bring your lunch?”
“Not today. Didn’t feel like making mash and ground beef again.” (My staple: instant mashed potatoes with ground beef, garlic, and onion. Terrible—but food.)
“Let’s go for a sandwich. Have you been to the sandwich bar at the pub?”
“No.”
“Good. Let’s go. Oh, grab the blanket—it’s there on the chair.”
Back then, the SFU student society ran the pub and its cafeteria, which had the best sandwich bar on campus. Always a long line.
When my turn arrived, the questions came fast—like an assembly line.
“What kind of bread?”
“Hero, please.” (I’d just seen a guy order it. It was huge. Glutton goes for big.)
“Mustard?”
“It’s ok.”
“Mayo?”
“It’s ok.”
“Onions?”
“It’s ok.”
“Pickles?”
“It’s ok.”
“What kind of meat?”
“Ham, please.”
“Cheese?”
“It’s ok.”
“Chips?”
“Make it lots, please.”
“To go or for here?”
“To go, please.”
“Anything to drink?”
“No, thanks.”
I paid for both our lunches—$7.50 for mine, $4.50 for hers—left a tip, and off we ran to the park with our blanket and our food.
We spread the green blanket just at the edge of a tree’s shadow—options for sun or shade. Unwrapping my sandwich, I gasped.
“What is this!”
“What’s wrong, Jose?” Christina leaned closer. “Wrong order?”
“No. Look at it. Only ham and bread! What is this?”
“You didn’t want anything on it. I was there.”
“What? I said it was OK to put all the things they asked for! Cheese? It’s OK—put it on! Instead I get this!”
She laughed. “Right—‘It’s OK’ means no in some places. Next time say ‘yes, please’ or ‘everything on it.’ Problem solved.”
“I just paid $7.50 plus tip for a hunk of bread and a few slices of ham! And I didn’t even bring water!”
“I can share with you, here…”
She slid condiments from her sandwich to mine, turning my sad lunch into something edible. She always made things better for me—then, and for the rest of her life.
Thank you, my love. I’ll never be able to thank you enough for your devotion. You should have been the one writing our stories. Your command of language was excellent—you were a paladin. Everything I know today, I learned from you.
And that old green blanket? It still carries your warmth.
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