Sometimes there is no accounting for taste. The kind in your mouth. Peanut butter and jelly returned to my life this week. I knelt bedside and thanked Mother Mary for guiding me through the darkness.
Bread, the true love of my life, was a cancer casualty. After chemo and radiation, it wouldn’t go down my gullet. It didn’t taste the same. Horrors.
The Chickens whispered in hushed tones, “Will she survive?”
Some worried I may relinquish life without baguettes, croissants, boules and artisan creations. Starvation was a consideration if I’m truthful. I cried. Over bread. More than once. And not just the good stuff. Woe included biscuits and gravy, sliced nine grain and Wonder.
For peanut butter and jelly to be at its best, Wonder Bread is a must. Is it really bread? Who cares? It’s the squish that creates PB & J perfection. Besides it’s that stuff your mom wouldn’t let you eat ‘cuz it was filled with preservatives. She made me eat brussel sprouts so what the hell does she know? I threw up then and I would do so again just to prove a point. Brussel sprouts are disgusting and even the dog should not be forced to digest something so gross. Now Wonder Bread–I bet the dog would eat that shit right up.
Need proof? The setting: Scuba diving with The Chickens and another family in Mexico. Up early, making snacks as the great mom I used to be. Pull out two loaves of Wonder Bread and slather on peanut butter and jelly, creating a plethora of sammies.
“Why are you making PB and J’s?” The Norwegian questions. “No one’s going to eat those.” He removes them from the cooler. Twice. I return them. Thrice.
“Pfft,” was all I had to say.
Fast forward many hours later, drenched kids and parents emerge from the ocean floor.
“Who wants peanut butter and jelly?” say I, Mom of The Year.
Children and adults clamor. “Please, sir, I want some more.” Dickens is never too far away.
The Norwegian reaches. “Oh no,” say I. “No one wants these.” Sheepish was such a good look on him.
Moral of story: Two bags of Wonder Bread does not make enough peanut butter and jelly sandwiches when you’re scuba diving. Remember that.
Low and behold, I’m in Target and what to my wondering eyes should appear? The balloon covered bag. My heart beat faster. I had to try. Maybe it will work this time. I also buy peanut butter and jelly since they no longer live at my house, my heart is that broken.
Come home. Slather on the creamy peanut concoction–no crunchy in a PB & J. Then grape jam–the ultimate. One bite and I am transported to a gaggle of sleepy children huddled together in the back of a boat, bellies full of the ultimate treat, exhausted from exploration of all the sea has to offer. I eat a PB & J. And another for good measure.
And I tell that bitch cancer, “Not today girlfriend, not today.” Today, PB & J, tomorrow a baguette. The world is my oyster. Yuk, no, not really.
The Duchess Diaries 