Previously on Write Through the Night, I shared a story from my childhood about trying to start a mouse union, and as someone who was a very odd kid, I have so many more “hilarious in hindsight” stories. And that is why I am writing this for you today. Prepare yourself for a story of deception and triumph over the odds that started my long standing public beef with Oscar Mayer bologna. 

As an autistic person, food can often be overwhelming for me in a way my allistic (non-autistic) comrades may not understand. I was extremely sensitive to smell, taste and texture as a kid, which awarded me the label of “picky eater.” Oftentimes, I would have meltdowns over eating because the vibe was off. My mother had to deal with the brunt of these meltdowns, and my sometimes Don Coreleone-esque responses. 

One of these responses came when I was 4 years old,  sometime in the spring. I had conversations with my mother about how much I detested what I had coined the “Plastic Container Bologna.” I had given it this name because I was unaware it was Oscar Mayer and I observed it came in a plastic container (I didn’t know it was Oscar Mayer until I was 15, no bullshit). She was fully aware of how deep this hatred toward this lunch meat was. 

Despite all of this, one fateful day I sat down at a table in my preschool, opened my pink cat-adorned lunch box, and was met with a horrific sight: my sandwich had none other than the Plastic Container Bologna I had frequent nightmares about. I stood up on the bench attached to my table, clapped my hands together loudly, and announced to the entire group of toddlers and underpaid,underappreciated preschool staff: 


Then, I smoothed down my skirt, sat back down, and quietly ate everything in my lunch box except for that sandwich. My teachers seemed very concerned that I knew what “unacceptable” meant and could use it successfully in a sentence, and I am certain they called my mother to warn her about the forthcoming argument she would find herself in later that evening. 

When my mother arrived home that night, I didn’t even let her change out of her scrubs. I insisted she follow me into the kitchen, where I proceeded to slide the sandwich—still in its Ziploc bag—across the table like she was being interrogated, and calmly asked her “what is this?” She was very obviously annoyed and overwhelmed and replied, “It’s a bologna sandwich.” 

“But what kind of bologna sandwich is it, mother?” I asked her. Before she could answer, I loudly said “A PLASTIC CONTAINER BOLOGNA SANDWICH IS WHAT IT IS!” I stood up, and before walking away, intending to go into my room to read in peace, I simply stated “It will serve you well not to give me this for lunch again.”

Were my methods extreme? Some could certainly argue so. But did my mother ever give me a Plastic Container Bologna sandwich again? No, she did not. Say what you will, I get results.