There’s a particular memory I have of my father—most likely a conglomeration of dozens of these tiny occurrences. I remember seeing him with his back to me, standing at the kitchen counter. There’s a tiny jar of red peppers, a much larger jar of Blue Plate mayonnaise, and some yellowy-orange cheese. I can hear the soft tinkling sounds of a butter knife against a bowl, the rustling of a bag of white bread. In a matter of moments there’s a sandwich on a plate—2 simple squares of white bread with a mushy pinkish orange something spread in between. I don’t know if I’m the only weirdo running around calling this…