I’m thinking about the Sandwich of Freedom.

You ascribe importance to the strangest of things, Spyder.
But it was important.
It had tasted bad. The butter had been poorly distributed and the cheese had been strangely warm. One bite was weird, the next had been nothing but half-melted butter.
It had been the worst sandwich in the world that wasn’t deliberately trying to be bad.
It had been the worst; but it had also been her first.
Food was just something that happened. It was something the servants did; or the school cooks did; it was something you purchase. Preparation, at most, was undoing a wrapper when you bought a snack out on the town.
No one had ever taught her how to boil water; let alone prepare food that would keep her fed and healthy.
People like her – people like her family, to be more accurate – were so above the plebeian task of caring for themselves that teaching the younger generations to cook wasn’t something had ever occurred to someone.
Her “uncle” Nathan – a man whose precise relation to her she could never bother to remember; a favoured cousin or some such of her mother’s generation, had bought several restaurants, and had always taken the kids through the kitchens, gleefully pointing out this oven or that spatula, revelling in the quality of it all. But even that had been a smokescreen to get them through to a private dining room, where kid-friendly food and cakes had been prepared – even if it clashed with the tone of the rest of the menu.
The thought of cooking for herself – a subset of the truly terrifying prospect of caring for herself, had been intimidating enough to keep her in a constant state of panic through her first grocery-buying trip; and right up through somehow smearing butter all over the kitchen counter; until she had managed a sandwich.
And as bad as it had tasted, it had been something she had done, and that was worthy of pride.
I’m hungry.
No you’re not.
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