I still buy a can of Underwood once or twice a year. My grandma would make up a bunch of sandwiches. She’d slice up a loaf of Fransico sourdough. I always thought the paper bag it came in looked cool. Underwood deviled ham, chicken, roast beef, sliced tomatoes, and lettuce from their garden. We’d load into their van and drive out to Fort Point. Walk all around that place. Go down the road to watch the sea lions and surfers. They were crazy people. The San Francisco Bay is fucking cold and these surfers were surfing into the rocks not the beach. Then we’d walk along Baker Beach. Roll up our pants and scamper in and out of that beautiful cold water. The taste of salt in the air. The smell of the ocean. Then, we would drive over to one of the beautiful green lawns of the Presido that the public could use. Spread out a blanket and sit and est our sandwiches and potato chips. I think they were Wise Owl potato chips. Everything tasted better. Watch the soldiers march around. Then, back over the Bay Bridge to Pleasant Hill. And a deep, hard sleep.