Written by Sai “One of the Guys”
Way before “trading up” was in the news, I was conducting business on a regular basis. No I never ended up with a car, or a house on the French Riviera, but I did end up getting to eat like a king most days at summer camp.
My mom is a true Yankee lady. Born and raised in New England. She summered on the quiet lakes of New Hampshire. Played tennis on the dusty clay courts of Massachusetts, and explored the rocky beaches of Maine. And these adventures made her the person she is today. But it was her culinary choices that exposed her as a true Yankee.
Cucumber sandwiches, clam roll, pot roast and scrambled eggs cooked with milk were all part of our regular weekly menu growing up. These staples worked fine for me, but when she started getting creative that’s when problems began to occur. And her creativity always seemed to reveal itself in my lunch box.
She was never more creative than when she made her famous baked bean sandwiches. That’s right, a baked bean sandwich, with margarine-when people thought it was good for you- not butter, to make sure the bean juice didn’t soak the bread and make it inedible.
Now you may laugh and think to yourself, “It sounds pretty inedible to start with.” But actually they weren’t bad, just not every day! So armed with my bean sandwich I would head out into that ever so fascinating world of summer camp to see what kind of deal I could garner. I was never one to be hindered by something as small as an oddball sandwich.
The first plan of attack was to secure a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. With a PB and J, I was mobile, and could maneuver easily into enemy territory. Once I had one in my possession I knew I was on my way, because someone ALWAYS wanted a PB and J! But I didn’t. They were the staple snack at my house most afternoons. And those were also the days of Goober-you know the half peanut butter, half jelly in ONE JAR! No, I was gunning for the top of the food chain; Doritos and a Bologna sandwich.
“Hey Lester,” I’d say. “You wanna make a trade?”
“For what?”
“How bout this juicy sandwich for your PB and J?”
“Whatch ya got?”
“A bean sandwich.”
“A bean sandwich!? Nasty.”
“Have you ever tried one?” I’d say. (Once I engaged them in conversation I knew it was only a matter of time.)
“No”
“Well then how do you know they’re nasty?”
“Well…I guess I don’t. How about a bite?”
“No way. Now that’s nasty. You trade your PB and J and then you can have plenty of bites.”
“Well, Ok.”
Once I got the PB and J I would split it in half and start trading.
And so it went. Half a PB and J for a bag of potato chips. The other half for some flavor of Koolaid drink. A bag of potato chips for some Fritos. And it continued all the way up to the prize of all prizes. A bologna sandwich and Doritos.
Now to be fair, there were a lot of kids at the camp that came EVERY DAY with bologna and Doritos, so it wasn’t a big deal for them. But coming from my Yankee roots-I have others too-we never had soda, chips, or really much of anything tasty at our house, except the previously mentioned items. So I had to rely on my wits alone to keep up with all the current trends in delicious.
“Hey Sai?” Lester would say ten minutes after the trade.
“What?”
“The bean sandwich was OK, but I’d like to trade back half, for half of my PB and J.”
“What’s wrong Lester, you didn’t like it?”
“It was pretty good, but I’m kind of sick of it now.”
“I’m sorry Lester, as you can see, I don’t have your sandwich anymore. I’m really sorry.”
“That’s okay. Here you can have the rest of the bean sandwich. I’m not hungry anymore.”
“Are you sure Lester?”
“Yeah, here.”
“Thanks.”
And that’s how I ended up eating the most prized lunch items AND my bean sandwich. Because really, those bean sandwiches were pretty tasty!
But I will take you up on going out soon.” (Which I’m also confused about, because he has seemed to turn the tables on me…don’t really know the point of doing that). So I just replied, “Oh, very nice! I’ll be doing that myself this coming weekend. Well have fun, and I will talk to you later then. 
” And that’s it.
