Ahhh, c’mon!!! How can you screw up PEANUT BUTTER!! OK, I’ve adjusted to the world not being an episode of Father Knows Best. I’ve adjusted to never seeing kids skipping rope on the sidewalk anymore, or playing hop-skotch with chalk. Wouldn’t want to ruffle the feathers of the homeowners association. And I still sometimes have a tendency to actually get up out of my seat to change the t.v. station, and sometimes have the urge to wear an apron and high heels when I cook. I still believe in cocktail hour, and just rediscovered Necco wafers the other day at the candy counter, and devoured them, pretending I was going to communion.
But screwin’ with my PB&J sandwich is just not right on so many levels. There are certain memories of childhood that you just don’t screw around with, and I hope they get to the bottom of this salmonella scare, and fast! Last night, I found myself hoarding the one jar I have in the cupboard, safe in the fact that we’ve been eating from this particular jar without visits to the porcelain goddess or getting our stomachs pumped. I felt like a drug addict going through withdrawal who had just found some residue of delight lurking in that forgotten secret hiding place. I flung open the spoon drawer and proceeded to pillage that jar full of spreadable edible crunchy cream. Then I waited. Let’s see. No hives, itching, swelling, dizziness, lightheadedness or trouble breathing. Oh, woops, I’m confusing peanut butter with Viagra.
I’ll be glad when they’ve determined the source of this invasive outbreak, because my milk is getting sour in the fridge. Can’t have a glass of milk without a PB&J sandwich! Of course, my lactose intolerant gut is probably enjoying the break.
Wonder what the Beav would do….