I make a good Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich. I’m not just bragging here. It’s really true. For example, instead of spreading the jelly in a thin little layer, I put great huge gobbets that drip out of the sandwich while you eat it. I also specialize in customizations – hiding potato chips, nuts, or even banana slices to the middle.
To me, a PBJ isn’t just the plainest sandwich possible. It’s a challenge. How do you surprise the eater? How do you create an excitement with peanut butter and jelly?
What I’m trying to say is that my PBJs are some of the best sandwiches you’ll ever taste. They’re both crunchy and drippy, oozing out of the bread on one side while exploding into your mouth on the other. It’s not a meal, it’s an adventure.
Unfortunately, the kids don’t always agree with me. When C asks me for a PBJ, for example, he usually adds “Just peanut butter and just jelly. That’s it, daddy. Okay? Just peanut butter and just jelly.”
This almost always turns into a routine vaguely reminiscent of Laurel and Hardy.
Me: “How about potato chips?”
Him: “No! Just peanut butter and just jelly.”
Me: “You just want peanut butter and jelly with no bread?”
It works almost every time. The other day at dinner, however, my culinary reputation suffered a devastating attack. For once, C finished his entire meal – and he was still hungry. Unfortunately, we were out of food.
“We don’t have any more, big guy. How about a PBJ instead?”
I started to get up to make it, but he stopped me. “No,” he said. “After mom’s done. I’ll wait until mom’s done. She can make it.”
Great artists are never appreciated during their lifetime.