Peanutbutter and Jelly

Really, how hard can it be to make a decent peanut butter and jelly sandwich? You’d think the recipe involved manufacturing a chasseur sauce for cryin’ out loud.

OK, this is a rant so if you have crybaby, girly-man, casper milk-toast ears, stop reading.

After driving my kid through three states over two days to play at four ice rinks I was all but done. We tried to avoid the variety of road food generally available – McDonald’s, Burger King, Dunken Donuts, etc. – so our meals were scarce but better than the crap along the road. After the last game, we shuffled over to the local ice rink snack bar and looked for something to get us through the remaining 50 miles or so left before we could collapse into our warm hockey-free homes. Mijihita ordered a few Gatorades, her teammate weenied-out and got fries. Still deciding, I looked up and saw a sign that represented to me what this country stands for – “Peanut Butter & Jelly Sandwich $2.10.” Longing for home, I ordered the PB & J and waited.

Before I go on I just want to say a few things about God. He eats Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches. He eats them every day. The Bible says very little about this but as best as I can tell, God created the Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich somewhere between the time when he let the earth bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed and the fruit trees and when he created the great whales. And it was good.

The beauty of the PB&J is that it’s so simple to gracefully execute one. With just a few ingredients and a dull knife, a standard poodle can make one. And this is the rant – assuming the nincompoop behind the counter at the ice rink actually had something other than squid ink in his brain-pan, how could he have fucked up such an easy task? The sandwich arrived – after about 15 minutes I might add – no really – it took him this long- and it was disappointing in every way imaginable. One half of the sandwich was made with stale bread, the other semi-fresh. The peanut butter seemed to have an after taste of onion. (Did the little bastard put the condiment spreader used for the burgers on my sandwich!?!). I could not identify what type of jelly he used. It was so sparsely spread that it may as well have been excluded altogether. Did I take it back and demand to see the Manager? I’m frequently a crank, but I choose my battles and this one didn’t deserve it. Besides, the little dim wit, future laborer behind the counter was by then furiously text messaging someone while the queue backed up all the way to the blue line.

Here’s the rule – if God had intended peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to be made at and sold from ice rink snack bars, he would have required it pursuant to one of the ten commandments or something. It’s not there. I looked again just this morning. If you want a PB&J, make it yourself and don’t make the same mistake I did.

Peanut Butter and Jelly (jam) sandwich

1 Loaf fresh, sliced white bread (e.g., Wonder Bread)
1 Jar “Crunchy” peanut butter at room temperature
1 Jar Smuckers Strawberry Jam

Open the loaf of bread and take two slices from the middle of the loaf. Keep them together so the seams match up when you spread the jam and peanut butter. Now open the two slices like you’re opening a book and lay them on a suitable, clean, flat surface. Using a clean butter knife, spread a generous amount of crunchy peanut butter evenly over the surface of the right hand slice. Without cleaning the knife, dip into the jam jar and remove enough jam to cover the left hand side slice of bread. (Portions are incredibly personal so I will not suggest recommended amounts). Using as much skill as required, join the two slices together again so the seams match and the jam oozes slightly. With a clean sharp knife, slice the sandwich diagonally in half.

Enjoy with a large glass of cold milk.