Grandmothers always know best.
I was probably 10 years old when I met my first tomato sandwich. It was a day of favorite days, spent hanging out with my grands at their Handyman/Crafting shop. At lunch time Nana called me away from pinning shiny sequins on fruit shapes, and because nobody feeds kids better than grandmothers I went running. "What are we having today, Nana?" "Tomato sandwiches." "Ew. I don't like those." "Have you tried one?" "No. But I don't like them." That's when my granddaddy walked into the office, winked at me and said "I'll just eat yours then since you don't want it." He would have, too. So I watched her slather mayonnaise on a slice of white bread, add layers of perfectly ripened tomato, and sprinkle on salt and pepper before I reluctantly took a scrunchy faced "this is gonna be gross" kid sized bite. I didn't even bother with the chips resting on my paper plate that day, be...