Growing up, we were really poor. You never finished the last of something without first asking. The portions were modest and restricted. When I was 11, I received an invitation to a friend’s house. Their home and furnishings shocked me; they were far more luxurious than mine.

Lunchtime is arrived. Her mother had set the table for sandwiches, arranging three different breads, meats, sauces, and fruit. Lunch at my house included a day-old white bread sandwich with peanut butter and jelly. We sometimes had thinly cut meats. We were only allowed to have two slices of meat each sandwich.

So, at my friend’s house, I made my sandwich with only one slice of ham because it was much thicker than what I had at home. The mother panicked and asked, “What type of sandwich? You should put more on it; that is insufficient.” I mentioned that’s what we did at home.

They were astounded and eventually sent me home with a “care package” containing food. My parents never let me go to her house again because they were embarrassed when I told them we were poor.