Asphalt Sandwich

Yes, I agree, my title would make a great name for a band.

Evan and I arrived home today at about 4:30 PM after spending the weekend with my mom and dad. When dinnertime rolled around, and the cupboard was bare, Bacon announced that he would like to go out, but that he "didn't want to go anywhere big-- just to Big Boy or something." This we did.

I got a highly mediocre fish sandwich-- very lean on fish but pretty big on the chunk of deep fried batter wodged in the bun, some not-so-crispy fries, and a not-so-crispy tossed salad. Bacon's dinner looked more appetizing (some fish/shrimp/penne combo), and I found myself wishing I'd ordered what he did... or, even better, what we ordered for Evan: a grilled cheese sandwich.

When Evan goes out to eat, he never eats-- he's just too busy rearranging the salt and pepper shakers, and stirring my water with restaurant-provided crayons. But since I didn't want to cook for him when we came home, I kept my greedy hands off his sandwich for the duration of the meal, and asked for a to-go box, knowing full well Evan would eat the sandwich at home where he could watch TV.

Evan insisted on carrying the box out himself. He had it pressed to his little chest the way a suicide bomber does his weapon. Evan made it all the way into the parking lot and almost to the car when the box spilled open, strewing fries and sandwich onto the asphalt.

What follows is an approximation of the actual conversation in the moments after:

Bacon, looking at me: Should I pick this up? (Bacon says this knowing I feed Evan food off the floor all the time at home)
Me: Uhhh, I guess.
Bacon, crouching down, picking up sandwich: Gross. C'mon Evan. (Evan, seeing that Bacon has left the fries on the ground, crouches down and begins gathering a fistful of them like greasy sticks. Bacon walks back to the car with the boxed-up asphalt-dusted grilled cheese.) C'mon, Evan.
Me (standing next to Evan in the parking lot): Evan, leave the fries on the ground for the tee-tees. The tee-tees will fly down and eat them.
Evan: No, mama. (He hands me a fry)
Me: Gee, thanks.
Bacon: Evan, leave the fries for the tweet-tweets.
Evan: No, dada.
Me: You better bring that container over here. He isn't leaving without the fries.
Bacon (sighing): Fine.

We collect the fries in the container and drive home. Upon exiting the car, Evan insists on carrying the box again. He makes it up the front stoop, and almost into the house, when the box falls open again, spilling the sandwich and the fries. We collect everything in a hurry, but not before Evan can grab a fry off the ground and take a large bite of it.

Evan: Num, num!
Me: Evan, you're awesome.