So I'm sitting on Christa's couch and both of us are sick. She has a serious cold. I have a minor cold, plus some physical and mental exhaustion. And even though she is the sicker of the two of us, she seems to have more energy. I am quiet, sluggish, and apparantly defeated.

"What do you need?" she asks. I shrug. "Do you want to watch a DVD? Do you need to go on the internet?"

I don't.

"Can I get you some strawberry flavored water? Some oatmeal?"

I don't want anything like that.

"Do you want some sandwich spread?"

For some reason, this intrigues me. Sandwich spread? What in God's name is sandwich spread? Christa explains that she just bought it and that it is fantastic. The last time she had sandwich spread she was riding on the school bus plundering her own lunch, and she's been looking for this stuff for a long, long time (West Duluth Super One is where you can find it). She removes a small, familiar-looking tube of meat from the fridge.

Oscar Meyer Sandwich Spread, the label reads. Tastes Great on Crackers.

I nod my head and she procures a knife, a plate, and a row of saltines. When I dig in and go to town, I am immediately 5 years old again, sitting on my parent's couch with a metal tray on my lap, eating a plate of saltines covered in Oscar Meyer Sandwich Spread and watching Mr. Rogers, having just returned from morning kindergarten. Life was great back then.

I'm on my third cracker when another memory hits me. My mom used to make homemade sandwich spread. It's true. We had this red and white wooden chair in the kitchen and every now and then, she would clamp an old-fashioned meat grinder to the chair and put a big bowl beneath it. I was in charge of turning the crank while she fed pieces of meat and pickles into the grinder, along with whatever else goes into sandwich spread. What came out tasted a lot like the stuff in the tube, only better.

I flip the tube over and read the ingredients. "Bologna" is at the top of the list. "Imagine," I say, "we're eating a food that contains bologna as an ingredient." I keep reading and find that bologna has a parenthetical list of its own ingredients. "Pork" is the first in that list, and then "Machine-Separated Chicken." This is when I decide that ignorance is bliss and stop reading the nutrition facts.

"What kind of meat do you think my mom used when she made sandwich spread?" I wonder out loud. It's no use. I can't picture the meat she fed into the grinder, and when I try to imagine her feeding slices of bologna into it, well, that is just plain wrong. I only remember the way it looked as it came out: pink and spreadable. I make a mental note to ask her about it.

The next morning, we're staring out the window at the creepy house next door, as we are wont to do, when Christa says, "Sandwich Spread is a Food of Abuse." And despite all of my warm and loving memories, I have to admit that it is.

"The Food of Abuse" is an ongoing conversation we have in which we list and describe foods that one might be serving, preparing, or consuming just before one "falls down the stairs" or "walks into a door." We are both creative people with extremely vivid imaginations, and sometimes -- a lot of the time -- that does not lead to pretty imagery.

Generally speaking, I contend that the Food of Abuse is nearly always processed food that requires little or no effort to prepare. Both Swanson Turkey Pot Pie and Bird's Eye Fish Sticks top my list, the former suggesting spousal abuse while the latter points toward child abuse. Christa asserts that meatloaf is the quintessential example. Here is where we usually disagree.

"Meatloaf is homemade," I say. "It can't be a Food of Abuse because someone had to make it by hand. It contains love."

"Meatloaf doesn't contain love," Christa says. "Meatloaf is made out of hamburger and ketchup. You're not seeing it. She's home all day, all alone, watching her stories on TV. Finally, he's due home and she has to make something. She makes meatloaf."

"I suppose," I admit, "that IF he comes home late, drunk, and pissed off because he lost all of his money playing pull-tabs at the bar, and IF the meatloaf is therefore dry and partially burned, THEN it can be a Food of Abuse."

We quietly think about this for awhile, still looking out the window at the creepy house next door. Then suddenly, it hits me.

"Bologna!" I yell. "My mom DID use bologna to make sandwich spread, but not slices. You can totally buy it in a big log."

"That's right, you can."

"Hey, what's that soft meat that comes in a log...um...I can't remember what it's called, but..."

"Braunschweiger."

"Yes! I don't remember what that tastes like."

"It's gross."