Dear Richard loves those huge beefsteak tomatoes that arrive late in July. Last week he went looking for the first giants of the season for BLTs – and came home with two. Obviously not local tomatoes, they were nevertheless a great season opener. As I was slicing up the first big boy, I asked Richard if he ever ate plain tomato sandwiches when he was a kid.

“Absolutely!” he said. “Mayonnaise and soft white bread, with just a little salt – ooooooh! Remember? I’ll never forget them.”

I agreed. I loved them too. As we continued to chat about them, we both realized we hadn’t had one in at least 60 years. I said, “Whattaya say, let’s have some.” He was heading out to shop, and I added a loaf of soft white bread to his list. We don’t eat white bread except an occasional homemade garlic bread, and that wouldn’t work for the perfect childhood “sammich.”

I made three of the sandwiches the following evening, splitting the third one in half. One half-inch thick slice of the huge juicy tomato filled the bread slices slathered with mayo. The soft Pepperidge Farm bread had just enough heft to handle the juice while still being soft to the squeeze and the chew. We thought we had died and gone to heaven. Y-u-m-m-m.

And while we ate, we chatted about other childhood favorites. couldn’t believe how long it had been since I’d had a PBJ. Richard likes his with grape jelly, I prefer strawberry jam. I guess my fixation with sandwiches really did begin when I was a kid – over a pair of PBJs.

My Uncle Chet was home from the war, and had started building himself a house … on nights and weekends. I loved hanging around his project, holding lumber ends while he sawed, fetching nails, and feeding his dog. I was about six. One Saturday at noon, he commented he was hungry and needed to make us some PBJs. “I can do that,” I volunteered, and he questioned if I knew how. I was eager to prove to him that I was worth having around. I wanted to be his helper-buddy.

In his kitchen-to-be, a table held a few food items, and I set to work to make the best PBJ ever. I wanted to make him proud of me. I laid out four slices of Wonderbread and thinly spread two with Peter Pan. I worked to get the sticky peanut butter perfectly to the edges, spreading it so thin you could almost see through it. I did the same with the Welch’s grape jelly. I sliced them diagonally – remembering that it was fancier – and took the sandwiches on paper towel sheets to the backyard boulder Uncle Chet had just sat down on.

He looked at his sandwich, took a bite, and looked at me. “What’s this? This isn’t a sandwich. Put something on it!” Standing, he motioned me to come with him. Back in the kitchen, he opened the two jars and slathered big globs of peanut butter and jelly over my perfectly applied spreads, “Now THAT’S a sandwich.” he said, as he held one half up and bit it in two. “And a man needs two sandwiches for lunch. Don’t be so stingy.” And his advice has stuck with me all my life. Unfortunately. I’ve tried making thin sandwiches, small servings of anything, and I’m just not capable. My Uncle Chet made it immoral to underfeed a man.

Richard’s and my conversation about childhood sandwiches extended to Fluffernutters, and I learned he had never had one! After doing some research on Marshmallow Fluff, I learned it’s mostly a New England and eastern seaboard delicacy. But it is sold locally. I informed him that it is un-American never to have eaten a Fluffernutter, so his weekend is going to be sweeter than he planned.

We continued our childhood foods chat talking about puddings and J-ellO. My mother saw to it that we had dessert every night, even if it was only canned peaches or fruit cocktail. She always gave me the maraschino cherry halves that brightened up the peach, pear and pineapple pieces.

I also see some childhood butterscotch pudding and some tapioca in our weekend walk down Memory Lane. But I must stop there. Monday’s scales will be waiting – a problem I never had as an active, running kid.

I’ll return to our beefsteak tomatoes a la vinaigrette, jazzed up with some fresh basil and garlic.

But I have to admit that our foray into white bread was scrumptious – but just for one wonderful, tomato-y, memorable week.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at moby.32@hotmail.com