The rest of my sandwich is already assembled; honey ham and Colby-Jack on potato bread – moderate amounts of mayo evenly spread so as not to miss the corners. I take my treasure in my left hand, one small-fluorescent yellow, hot banana pepper, roughly two inches from tip to stem. I have a small metal handled paring knife in my right. I take great care and chop the stem from the top as yellowy liquid and spicy seeds burst onto the white cutting board. This is my spoil of war.

I planted a garden and it sowed nothing but misery: and this one, singular, pepper. I’d never had a garden before, but I had been slowly gathering supplies. Planters and soil one day, seeds and spades the next. Gardening feels like honest work- cleansing even as the dirt shows under your nail beds and in the fibers of your clothes. But I have been at war. The Bayview coalition of neighborhood grey squirrels have continued their assault these last four, hot July summer weeks and stripped away all hope of fresh bell peppers in my salads, habaneros on my pizza and hot banana peppers on my sammies.

I return to my lunch and make meticulous slices down the length of my pepper and then chop those thin strips in thirds. I place each piece strategically on the bread for maximum exposure and drop them as they stick a Hellman’s landing. It was devastating at first, going to bed each night and seeing the little flower buds blossoming – little white blooms on the peppers and giant orange and red zucchini flowers open wide as welcoming hands. Then to come out each morning to complete and utter destruction. Each precious growth ripped from its stem, broken and oozing in the dirt. Who knew heartbreak grew in the ground. I’d read once in a story to tread lightly over the earth and wreak no havoc. Yet havoc was wrought.

Every night thereafter I began carrying two square planter boxes of pepper sprouts into the garage after dark, about 20 yards away. But the stuffy heat stifled them and the zucchini and squash pot was far too heavy to carry anyways. Then came the chicken wire. I fought uneven metal folds with wire cutters as small-pointed edges made angry-red razor cuts down my inner forearms. Unrolling that stuff is way harder than it looks. When I was finished, four uneven-quadrilateral-box shapes surrounded my plants. The next morning, the prison-like walls remained in-tact but again, every blossom had been plucked right through the bars by tiny, malicious little squirrel mitts. I tried covering the blooms at night only to find I had squashed them myself the next day. Throughout this contentious engagement of squirrels over many a week, one hot banana pepper soldiered on amidst the destruction and against all odds.

I bite into my sandwich and savor every last bite, proceed to my little garden and tear every last shriveled vegetable up by the roots and repot the soil with marigolds and other purple and red flowers that I’ll never recall the names of. There will be no harvest this year; only the musings of retaliation against tree rats and one savory ham sandwich.