To my dismay, the person who does the
packaging of the
meat my husband
brings him is not too concerned with which part is which, there are no labels at all.
So Lynda buys a loaf of bread, chops it in half with a borrowed knife (the real Melvin Dummar doing a turn as a solicitous counterman), slaps an entire
package of lunch
meat (unseparated) between bread chunks, and has the daughter
bring her the ketchup and mustard squirters while regaling her with advice on how to handle herself enroute.