Certain people have accused me of thinking too much. This ought to take care of that.
Lately I have found myself at a loss for words. Literally. I have run out of words. This is not good. So I asked over on another blog for suggestions about a post topic. If I remember correctly, the choices were: the price of tea in China, them bears, or this one. This one seemed least likely to cause damage to the world economy or wildlife in general. You all can thank MCB later.
Note: There were other suggestions later on, but I had already written this and now you’re stuck with it.
The first puzzle was to determine chunky or creamy WHAT? I can think of quite a few things that might be described as chunky: salsa, shoes, small children, vomit, chocolate chip cookies, jam. And several things that might be called creamy: soup, white sauce, butter, salad dressing, um, soup (give me a break, I’m trying to behave here and it’s not easy).
But there is only one thing I can think of that could go either way: peanut butter.
Some of my earliest memories are of peanut butter. Skippy, of course. Back then it was always the chunky variety. And then super chunk, once they invented that. That’s what my dad liked, that’s what we ate. Nothing evokes memories of childhood faster than peanut butter and honey sandwiches served with Campbell’s chicken noodle soup. Never PB with jelly or jam. Always honey.
First time I saw someone eat a PB&J sandwich, I stared with a sort of sick, horrified fascination, wondering whether they would become ill. I think I was 17 years old. Of course, I was probably 22 before I ate asparagus, so what do I know?
Since then I’ve seen some strange peanut butter combinations. My dad put it on his grapefruit. He also put honey on his Wheaties instead of sugar, but that is off topic. The dog’s favorite person, who prefers creamy PB, layered it with mayo and lettuce in a sandwich. My mom sometimes put PB on celery sticks, sprinkled it with raisins and told us it was “ants on a log.” She also likes PB and raisin sandwiches.
One of my nieces is so allergic to peanuts that she once had to get off a plane at a stop before her destination because they served peanuts as a snack on the plane. They do not have PB in their house; neither chunky nor creamy.
I once fed a spoonful of peanut butter to my dog — this was the one before Quincy the Wonder Dog; his name was Baxter — and he ate the peanut butter and then mangled the spoon before I realized what he was doing. My inattentiveness might be explained by the prolonged fit of laughter at watching him eat the PB. Baxter was one of the best dogs ever. Sigh.
Peanut butter cookies and chocolate-star-topped cookies feature PB as a key ingredient, as do Monster Cookies, which have no flour but plenty of PB and oatmeal and chocolate to hold them together. Yum. I prefer creamy PB when I use it to cook.
But in a sandwich? Heck, I like some crunch in my lunch.
Well, that’s about it. I believe I have now run out of words about peanut butter. I sense a trend here. Quite disturbing, this running out of words thing.
It has been years since I ate a peanut butter sandwich. I think I reached my personal lifetime quota well before I graduated from elementary school. But the thought of eating one is mighty tempting right now.
I wonder whether I have any honey?