School Lunch and the Promise I Made at Eight

School lunches have been rolling around in my head since July. They stress me out and somehow get harder as my kids get older—middle school is no picnic.

When I was a kid, I didn’t enjoy the lunch that was packed for me. My parents were children of the Depression—and combined with my mother’s dislike of cooking—let’s just say they were utilitarian. Peanut butter sandwiches were not like the ones seen in commercials, with a thick layer you could see the edges from the knife spreading it. No, I would describe my sandwiches more as bread (dry wheat bread) with a flavor of peanut butter and a hint of jam. I wasn’t alone; I saw other kids’ lunches similar to mine, a sandwich—though their sandwiches oozed grape jelly and peanut butter and looked far more appetizing. We all had an apple or orange, chips, and sometimes, if you were really lucky, you had a Hostess Twinkie or Ding Dong. The spotlight was on you as everyone watched you open it and eat it, enviously, wishing they had one.

However, my perception of what homemade sandwiches could be changed when I sat next to a girl whose Italian grandmother made her lunch. It was on a soft French roll, with different kinds of cold cuts—salami, mortadella—thin slices of Swiss cheese and provolone, and then lettuce that was not iceberg and tomato, topped off with both homemade mayo and Dijon mustard, all wrapped in cling wrap. She had yogurt with fruit in it and the most beautiful homemade cookies every day.

I never knew such kid lunches existed.

Once in a while, she would not want her sandwich, and she would give it to me. I couldn’t believe anyone would give up such a prize, but I took it, and it was the best thing I ever tasted. I asked her several times, “Are you sure?” She said, “I get them all the time, and I get tired of them.”
I just about fell off the bench.

If we ever had salami, it was in the Oscar Mayer variety pack, and it was large slices with chunks of peppercorns, along with a lingering taste of the bologna that was packed next to it. This was not that kind of salami—this was deli-sliced salami. It was all from the deli. We didn’t buy lunch meat from the deli counter of the grocery store—it was too expensive, especially for kids’ lunches. However, that day in third grade, as I tasted Dijon mustard for the first time, I made a vow to myself that someday my kids would get great lunches like my friend’s grandmother packed.

Fast forward 20–30 years: I would make a sandwich for my kids on specialty bread, fresh lettuce, tomatoes, and layers of deli-sliced turkey, ham, or sometimes salami. Packed popular chip varieties, fruit would be fresh peaches, strawberries, or berries in general. I avoided the apples and bananas that stunk up your lunchbox. I would also try to give a cookie or a treat of some kind, plus one more snack item for recess. I thought, oh, these are good lunches and healthy—vow fulfilled.

Then I made the mistake: I asked my son how he liked his lunch, and waited while he gave it thought—and he had thoughts. He thought the roll was too hard, and he didn’t like tomatoes, so he didn’t eat it and threw it away.

My heart felt a weight.

Then he declared he was no longer a fan of peaches and didn’t want those in his lunch. I still remember the day we discovered that variety together.

A little more weight on my heart.

I said, okay, I will leave off the tomatoes and put in a different fruit. I so wanted him to be happy.

Then the final blow: “Mom, I just want a plain sandwich with only one slice of turkey, and I want plain chips so I can put them in my sandwich.”

Ooh, life is cruel!

From that point on, lunch became an anxiety-filled chore as I desperately tried to hold on to the ideal. Too much mayo or not enough? Is the bread right? You like Pirate’s Booty—now Pirate’s Booty is out. Got it. I would cook tortellini, but they were never hot enough. I tested more insulated containers than Consumer Reports until I found Thermos’s kid-size food jar.

I did have one win: in fifth grade, he gave half his sandwich to a friend who didn’t like his lunch. The friend loved my turkey sandwich, so I started making an extra one. I needed that win. Life had come full circle.

My second child is a foodie from birth. He was open to different kinds of flavors and textures. I was so excited to finally have a child who would appreciate my lunches—or so I thought.

Where the first one just wanted something utilitarian so he could go play, the second one expected an experience and had the notes of a New York Times food critic.

The tortellini were too hot. If I could let it cool a little before putting it in the thermos, it would be appreciated. In addition, the Parmesan cheese needed to be mixed into the pasta instead of being grated on top.

Sandwiches were okay, but again only a thin, barely detectable layer of mayo—depending on the bread—maybe some green leaf lettuce, but only that; romaine lettuce was too crunchy, and spinach, well, even raw didn’t sit well on the palate.

While it sounds spoiled, both kids were just answering my questions and thought they were being helpful. However, as the years passed and peanut butter was banned from schools, I found myself running out of options. My lunches became less exciting, and to take the stress off, I was happily paying for school lunches more often than I could admit to myself.

Now I have my youngest, born much later and at a different point in my life. In his younger years, his dad would pack his lunches; by then, my dreams were shattered, and I was but a shadow of my former self.

Insert dramatic soap opera swoon here!

My husband thought I put way too much into making their lunches—and the expense. He, too, was more utilitarian than foodie. Defeated, I left him to it, but the guilt still stayed.

The youngest loved salami, like his dad, so that’s what he got, all the time. I think if COVID hadn’t affected his school time, the salami rebellion would have happened sooner. But fourth grade was a turning point—and, for once, my husband felt the burn. Salami sandwiches were out. Just slices of a particular brand, and no cheese! Then, finally, none at all.

By fifth grade, lunch wasn’t about eating. It was about maximizing his time to play soccer or football with his friends. Luckily, our schools pay for lunches so kids always have access to food.

However, on the brink of his teen years, he is constantly hungry—yet he doesn’t eat lunch. He waits until he gets home. I used to make him a sandwich. Now I don’t even do that right. He prefers making them himself. I don’t toast the sourdough properly. And I add the chips too soon. Again with the chips!

This year I found myself getting frustrated, trying to figure out his ideal lunch. I shared this with friends recently; they all said, kindly, “Mom Guilt.” In past years, I would have agreed—and I still find myself wanting to say it now. But in my case, I think it was the promise eight-year-old me made that I let down. And my older self thinks: perhaps it wasn’t lunch at all; that was just the obvious—and tastiest. It gave me something I could do to offset the powerlessness of being eight.

I had forgotten the initial feeling of delight and astonishment at seeing something so grand in a kid’s lunch. It was like going from black-and-white to full color. It sounds silly now, as I live in an area with so many flavor options, but it was the ’70s—the era of canned vegetables, Minute Rice, and iceberg lettuce. Everyone had a version of these things for dinner, just as everyone had the same version of lunch.

Now I see the full scope of the moment. It opened my mind to other ways of doing things—and I wish I’d made the connection sooner. I could have saved myself a lot of morning stress. Yes, we can put whatever we want in a lunch, but do we always take advantage of all our options? Are we still delighted by a new take, or do we keep to our ways? Now my concern is not lunch, but my kids having those moments—to revel in the discovery. When they did, was I open-minded enough to hear it—and model it? I honestly don’t know. I can only hope.

For now, I can give up chasing the car—waving like a madwoman with the forgotten lunch—and embrace life’s new options: I’ll rant by text.

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