Virgin Mary Toast

Harry and me decide to try making grilled cheese sandwiches again, in hopes we can turn out a miracle likeness of the Virgin Mary. That’s what I want anyway, but Harry says the Virgin Mary has already been miracled and we’d make more money if we imaged somebody different like Jesus maybe, only more widely known like Abraham Lincoln or Elvis. I keep telling Harry that Presidents are boring unless we luck up and get Kennedy. Besides I’ve noticed that an oddly shaped potato chip is more likely where you’re going to find your historical and/or political figures like Nixon or William Shakespeare.

Anyway, when Harry comes back from the store with wheat bread. I say, “Harry, everybody knows your Sunbeam batter-whipped white bread is the kind you need to get the miracle images.”

Harry answers back, “Sweetie, we don’t know that for sure. It’s not like we’ve been able so far to replicate the face of anyone we could call a name to.”

I tell him the bread is of vital importance like buying the right film to get the best photos. Quality supplies. Quality results. But Harry says we should try new methods since we haven’t been able to claim even profile success using white bread.

I’m still not convinced that wheat is the way to go, but then Harry gives me that smile of his, accentuating his dimple and looking so hopeful that I’m won over.

We got this idea for sandwich miracle imaging from the woman who sold her partly eaten sandwich on eBay for $28,000. To start with, her sandwich was 10 years old, but looked fresh as the day it was made because, as it turns out, the Virgin Mary does not mold. That’s a lot of money for an old sandwich even if it does bear the image of the Virgin Mary. This woman, Mrs. Diane something, was tucking into her grilled cheese sandwich when she looked down and this face on the bread was staring back at her. Mrs. Diane Whatever Her Name Was got scared so she called her husband to come quick and he said, “Honey, put that sandwich down. That’s the Blessed Virgin Mary smiling at you,” and Mrs. Diane Whatever sure enough put down that holy sandwich. From then on she kept it in a plastic box cushioned with cotton balls until she sold it on eBay for $28,000.

Harry says that Diane didn’t have nothing to fear from a grilled cheese sandwich, but I don’t blame her for being scared. I remind Harry how he himself is scared of crocodiles. Harry says a crocodile is something altogether different and should be feared unless it bears the face of the Virgin Mary in which case it probably won’t eat you. Then Harry gets this cute little boy expression and I’d just love to image his dimples on a sandwich. Hundreds of women would buy that on eBay.

Anyway, we set out to grill the sandwiches with Harry doing the cooking. The first one turns out a golden color so buttery crisp that I can’t wait to taste it, so I’m glad it doesn’t look like anyone’s face I’ve ever seen before. While I’m eating it, Harry sizzles up the second one. Then another one and another. All along with the buttering and flipping, he talks about what he’d do with $28,000. He says, “Sweetie, I’d put a down payment on a little house or maybe we’d take a trip to somewhere with blue, blue waters and white, white beaches.” By now he’s up to the fourth of fifth sandwich with no results, but he keeps cooking, peering down at the bread browning bit by bit to see whose face might turn out. He says, “I’d buy us a new car with good tires and wheels and rims.”

I’m about to say again how I don’t understand why men are so in love with wheels and rims, but then Harry whoops. In a flash, I’m heading to the stove since I think Harry must’ve miracled up Jay Leno or Marilyn Monroe or Charlton Heston as Moses, but Harry holds me off and makes me wait at the table and close my eyes.

He says, “I want to put it on a fancy plate and turn it just the right angle so you’ll get the full effect when you see it the first time.”

I’m purely dying of suspense, but I know he’s right. Those cooking shows are all the time saying that presentation is of vital importance. I hear Harry clattering through cabinets, rattling dishes, and all the time he’s whistling. When he finally says okay, I open my eyes.

"Presto?” he says. I stare down at my favorite pedestal cake plate with the roses painted along the edges onto which Harry is presenting his sandwich. “Ta da,” he says. I look. “Well?” he says.

I just say, “Hmmm.”

He turns the sandwich around a fraction of an inch and says, “There, right there. Don’t you see what I see?”

And I don’t, but I squint a little and keep looking hard because I really, really want to see what Harry sees since he’s beaming so proud with that dimple of his showing and all. I cannot bear to break his heart so I tell him I think I see the beginning of somebody, but I can’t quite make it out. Harry puts the spatula down and grabs my shoulders. I look into his eyes and, I swear, he has tears coming into play. He whispers. “Sweetie, we’re going to be rich.”

I look down at the sandwich again, but for the life of me, I can’t see nothing but bread, wheat bread. I think about Mrs. Diane Something, and I think about faces on grilled cheese sandwiches, and I think about Harry’s dimpled face right in front of my eyes, and I know there are some miracles I’ll let him see for the both of us.