Jackson Jambalaya

My paternal grandmother was one of the sweetest, most loving people God ever put on this Earth. She didn’t fuss. Didn’t preach. She just went about loving people the way she knew how—quietly, gently, without any need for attention or applause. Her love showed up in small ways, the kind you don’t notice until years later. Every time she made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, she cut the crusts off.

She didn’t ask if I wanted them off. She just knew. That soft little square of white bread, with jelly spread all the way to the edge, was her way of saying “I love you” without ever needing to say it. My mother made them triple-decker. My grandmother made them proper. I ate one almost every day as a kid. And somewhere in there, without even realizing it, I learned that food could be more than food. It could be care. It could be kindness. It could be love, trimmed neat at the edges.

Most people have a sandwich like that buried somewhere in their memory. Maybe it came out of a brown bag that sat in a warm classroom all morning. Maybe it was packed by a mama who didn’t have time for much else. Maybe it smelled like crayons and banana peels, tucked next to a dented thermos and a note that said, “Eat this and don’t trade with Stan.” It probably wasn’t fancy. Didn’t need to be. But you remember the way it tasted. The way it made the afternoon a little easier. That memory hangs on long after the sandwich is gone.

For me, it was peanut butter and jelly. Back then, smooth peanut butter on white bread with strawberry or grape jelly. These days, it’s more grown-up—Loblolly Bakery’s lunchbox loaf, crunchy peanut butter, and either homemade peach preserves or a jar of Bonne Maman blackberry, because why not make your nostalgia artisanal?

I’m on a sandwich kick right now. Still on it. But I’m also deep into a Mexican food streak—two cheese enchiladas on flour tortillas with rice and beans from a spot here in town. I’ve had that same plate three times a week for over a month. That’s how I do things. I get on something and ride it till I burn out. But some things—like sandwiches—I never seem to burn out on.

I spend about four months a year working overseas, mostly in Italy where carbs are treated like scripture. Sometimes Spain or the U.K. Occasionally somewhere in between. By the time I get home, I’ve had enough pasta to last a season. I’m not rushing to a trattoria. I want something that reminds me of where I’m from—Southern food, Mexican food, something simple, something warm. Something that doesn’t require me to ask the waiter, “How do you say this again?”

I started my career in fine dining and stayed in it for more than thirty years. Before I ever opened a restaurant, I was traveling for research. I’d hit three upscale places in one night, looking for something that might inspire a dish back home. For a while, I loved it. Lived for it. Then I burned out. And when that happened, all I wanted was something familiar. A plate of fried chicken that tasted like it showed up late to church but brought deviled eggs. I’d drive ninety minutes if someone said it was worth it.

But sandwiches are different. I’ve never burned out on sandwiches. They’ve just been there, steady as the mail.

That streak started early. After kindergarten, I ate lunch most days at the Frostop, a little drive-in here in Hattiesburg. I’d get a small chili cheeseburger with a little paper sack of fries. On the days I didn’t, I’d eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at home. Either way, it was a sandwich. Always has been.

There are people who’ll argue about what makes a sandwich—whether a burger counts, whether a hot dog counts, whether a po’boy counts. I don’t have time for all that. If it has a filling and two sides that keep your fingers from getting messy — it’s a sandwich. Period. End of story.

I love po’boys. Roast beef is my number one—the messier, the better. Extra gravy, falling out the back end, paper soaked clean through. Second place goes to fried shrimp. Some folks try to combine roast beef and seafood. I’ve never understood that. That’s like putting shrimp in a milkshake. Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.

These days, the sandwich I go back to the most is the scrambled egg and bacon on an everything Jerusalem bagel at Loblolly Bakery. I had one for breakfast last week and turned around and had another for lunch. I believe that might be what the medical community refers to as a “cry for help.” That bagel gets baked fresh every morning, just like the sourdough. It doesn’t last long—sells out most days—but it’s my favorite.

We’ve started doing sandwich night at home. That wasn’t something we did growing up. Sunday night was breakfast for supper or beanie weenies while we watched The Wonderful World of Disney. These days, it’s sliced ham, roast beef, and turkey laid out on the counter. Friends and family build their own like they’re auditioning for a cooking show where no one wins anything except cholesterol.

Mine is always the same: roast beef on untoasted Loblolly sourdough. Blue Plate mayonnaise on one side, Colman’s mustard on the other. Salt, pepper, and Salad Days Bibb lettuce in between. That’s it. It’s very grown-up. Also, very 11-year-old.

Scrambled Egg & Bacon on Everything Jerusalem Bagel (Loblolly Bakery)