Peanut Butter and Jelly

            I’m in a writing group and the last essay I shared with them mentioned, and subsequently led to a conversation on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. One member suggested writing about that – so, what the heck…

 

            I usually pack a lunch and snacks when going on longer hikes. I am particular in what I pack, not because of gastronomic preferences, but because whatever I bring needs to be edible after bouncing around in a hot backpack for several hours. Apple – yes, banana – no; cookies – yes, apple pie – no; peanut butter – yes, mayonnaise – no. In addition, items must be easily eaten while perched on a rock taking in a mountaintop view. With this in mind, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are a logical choice. They can last for days without going bad, you can eat them with your fingers, and they might get a bit mushed but they rarely fall apart. And, above and beyond their practicality, PB&Js can be pretty tasty.

 

            There was a time when I couldn’t stand to look at a PB&J sandwich. In elementary school we actually went home for lunch everyday. Mom would pick us up if it were raining; otherwise we were on our own to walk. School was only five blocks away but to a young kid it might as well have been twenty miles, especially in the wintertime. We’d get all bundled up at school, trek home, strip off the winter wear, wolf down lunch, re-bundle, and trudge back to class – not exactly an efficient use of time. I believe situations like mine are the origins of the ‘when I was a kid…’ stories. Occasionally, mom would make soup, OK open up a can of Campbell’s and heat it up, or something that seemed to indicate she put some thought into lunch. More often, she would slap something together quickly and throw it at us. It was just slightly more civil than pouring food in a bowl and setting it on the floor. I can’t say I blame her. She certainly was not an uncaring mother, but probably resented having her day broken up. Can you blame her? Imagine having the whole day to yourself except for twenty minutes right in middle when you had to be sure to be home and feed the pack. No wonder the concept of eating lunch at school became so popular. Did you really think it was just the working parents behind that movement? Anyway, frequently (in my exaggerated memory it’s about ninety-five percent of the time), we had peanut butter and jelly. Not that I didn’t like it, I just got very sick of them.

 

            Now, years later, I have a nostalgic fondness for them. I couldn’t eat them everyday like when I was a kid, but they make a nice snack from time to time. One thing I should make clear is that it’s the jelly I get tired of. I can, and do, eat peanut butter all the time – right out of the jar. Forget that ‘all natural’ stuff; it’s ok, but I prefer mine processed with sugar. Reduced Fat Jif is my peanut butter of preference. In my need to appear to be a healthy eater, I see the reduced fat as offsetting the addition of sugar so Jif is just as good as natural from a health perspective. Peanut butter and jelly, peanut butter and chocolate, peanut butter on a banana…peanut butter and some sort of sugar works well. It’s that perfect combination of salt and sweet like kettle corn and yogurt covered pretzels. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention unsalted peanut butter equals tasteless peanut butter as far as I’m concerned.  Many naturalists would argue with me; that’s fine, they can eat their bland paste; I’m sticking with the good stuff.

 

            The subject of PB&J reminds me of a story I used to read to my second graders. It’s about a boy who’s eating lunch with his friends at school and is quite upset because his dad made his sandwich wrong. His dad made jelly and peanut butter instead of peanut butter and jelly; he spread the ingredients in the wrong order. As ludicrous as that sounds, there is some merit to the boy’s complaint. There are some considerations that must be taken into effect when making PB&J; you don’t just slap the stuff on the bread. First one must consider the ratio of peanut butter to jelly. When I was younger I preferred more jelly than peanut butter. Now the main ingredient is peanut butter and the jelly is just a condiment. In either case, a jelly-only or a peanut butter-only sandwich would not have worked even though I preferred over the other; you have to have some percentage of both.

 

            Secondly, the jelly can make the bread mushy which is why it is helpful to start with the peanut butter. You can create a nice protective barrier between the jelly and the bread if you apply the peanut butter to both slices. Third, the choice of jelly is paramount to a successful entrée, and it’s an easy decision… grape. I used to listen to a morning program on the radio. It was the typical male-female, inane talk show. One day they got on the topic of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and the woman stated that you have to use grape jelly; the others simply don’t work. I had to admit she was exactly right. I’ve tried strawberry, raspberry and others and they simply don’t taste right and those with seeds don’t feel right. Granted it’s not the key to the meaning of life, on the other hand maybe there is lesson to be learned. We seem to spend a lot of time trying to improve on things that are just fine as they are. I mean, come on, can anyone really tell the difference between Blu-Ray and the DVDs we’ve been watching for years? Finally, whereas we probably are the laziest society on the planet, combining peanut butter and jelly into one product is taking things a little too far. Opening one jar instead of two does not save that much effort. Besides it’s just far too unpredictable. It’s becomes very hard to control how much of each ingredient you end up with. I’m sorry; using that stuff gives you a random, swirl sandwich, not a true PB&J.

 

            Like peanut butter and jelly, there seems to be a number of things I grew tired of as a kid that I actually enjoy now. Shoveling snow, mowing the lawn and raking leaves are all things that often felt like drudgery growing up but now I look forward to doing. I see them as an excuse to get outside and get some air. I guess it’s all about having a choice. Where I live now there is someone who comes to plow the driveway after a snow so I don’t have to shovel. However, if I have the time I can get out there and do it and we call and cancel the plow guy. Imagine that, ‘I don’t feel like it’ is a valid excuse – couldn’t get away with that as a kid. Likewise, my landlady pretty much neglects the yard. It’s always appreciated when I mow the lawn, trim the trees, or rake leaves but there are no expectations. On a nice day I can work in the yard or go off and eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the White Mountains; it’s my choice.

 

            Money wasn’t even enough to keep me inspired. When I was younger I would pick up odd jobs in the neighborhood – raking leaves, mowing lawns, etc. I would always start out gung-ho and would do an immaculate job. I knew the client was watching and I was out to impress. After time, they would come to trust me, and leave me be to do the work. I might go over, do what I had to do and leave without ever seeing them. I can still visualize being in a neighbor’s backyard cleaning up after giant oak and elm trees, cramming leaves into giant plastic bags, trying to clean up the mountain of leaves I’d raked up. Having worked up a sweat in the warm afternoon sun I’d begin to shiver as dusk set it and the autumn chill would seep into my damp cloths. Alright, I won’t go too Dickens on you, but I did feel a bit cold and lonely as plodded along on a seemingly endless task. I would get paid eventually though I didn’t really care about the money. It was the appreciation that I was after. But now my efforts were expected; it was my job. Little by little, I’d stop going on a regular basis. I’d wait till they called wondering where I was. Eventually, they’d go back to doing it themselves; they were probably just hiring me to be nice in the first place. What’s curious is that my parents rarely said much at all about it. They knew these people and what was going on yet I don’t recall them ever saying much, or pushing me to follow through. They would intervene enough to let the neighbor know what’s going on but not much more than that. I guess I never knew what they were thinking.

 

            There was one exception to the leave-me-be scenario. Our next-door neighbors were a Ukrainian couple. He was a doctor and she a housewife. My youngest sister couldn’t pronounce their foreign name and referred to them as the Socks and that became our secret nickname for them. Mrs. Socks was the stereotypical, old-world housekeeper and she kept the house immaculate at all times. She actually scrubbed the front stoop and stairs with soap and water on a regular basis. A couple times a year she’d wash the eaves and the windows around the outside of the house. That’s where I came in. It was getting to be too difficult for her to be on a ladder that much so she hired me to help her. What was different about this job is that she was usually right there with me. She’d rinse out the rags and hand them up to me to clean the eave – first the soapy rag then the rinse rag. Then we’d go around again and get the windows, ammonia water, squeegee and wipe. There was a definite routine to follow and we did together. I helped her with that for years. Even when she assigned me other jobs that I could do on my own, she was always within a stone’s throw. Usually she was cleaning inside as I was cleaning outside. She’d check in on me from time-to-time so I never felt abandoned and left to my own devices. Some people might find that intrusive, but not me. I’m a chronic daydreamer and have a tendency to get lost in my thoughts, and I don’t mean drift off for a second or two, more like search-and-rescue lost. That’s probably why I was often bagging leaves in the dark. I appreciated having Mrs. Socks check in with me and keep me focused on the task at hand.

 

            Mrs. Socks did make the mistake of leaving me completely alone one time. She had a new job for me, unfortunately, her English was a somewhat limited and she didn’t explain it quite right. She asked me to pick up the needles under the bushes along her fence. These were the little, one-inch needles that are basically impossible to pick out of the dirt. What she wanted was for me to turn the soil and bury the needles. Instead I took her literally and picked up all the needles. I tried to sift out the dirt before tossing them in the garbage but it didn’t help much. I filled two or three garbage cans full of needles and dirt. There was no way even the burliest of garbage men could have lifted them to dump the contents in the truck, not that they would have even tried, since you weren’t supposed to put yard waste into the regular garbage. The next day she apologized for her English, while probably muttering in Russian what an idiot I was, and we spent a few hours putting the dirt back bucket by bucket. From that time on she included demonstrations along with verbal instructions – just to be safe.

 

            There were other times when I felt like a complete moron when working for her. I didn’t mind however, she was usually right. Sometimes my failure to grasp the obvious is a bit disconcerting. What I liked about her is she’d just correct me and move on. Like when she invited me in for a snack. She had made small butter cookies. Trying to appear polite I kept taking small bites and was getting crumbs all over the place in the process. She was clearly focused on the mess I was making and finally gestured to pop the damn things in my mouth, whole. I did, that was that, and the conversation continued. I admired that about her, she let you know if something was bothering her but in a very matter-of-fact way. I think that’s a problem most Americans have. We tend to either hold on to things, letting them fester, or make them more personal than they really are. It was surprising to hear Mrs. Socks be so abrupt, on the other hand it was sort of reassuring that you always knew where she stood. She didn’t hide much.

 

            Perhaps the most surprising example of Mrs. Socks’ bluntness happened shortly after my mom died. I don’t know how the subject came up but she commented on how my mom died long before she physically was taken. She didn’t elaborate much yet I knew exactly what she was talking about. By the time my mom was diagnosed with cancer the tumors had spread throughout her body. She was given six months to live. I think she was ready to go at that point, but she knew we, the kids, weren’t ready for her departure (dad was bedridden with advanced MS and couldn’t help much). With the help of chemotherapy she held on for two years working hard to get the family affairs in order. She had, in fact, stopped living for herself and was focused on fulfilling her role as mother. Only Mrs. Socks had the gumption to point that out. I’m glad she did as it helped me appreciate what mom had done.

 

            The last time I saw Mrs. Socks was at my dad’s funeral, about ten years after my mom died. I was a little surprised to see her; I didn’t know what connection still remained and how she found out about his passing. Didn’t matter, I was glad to see her. We didn’t get much of a chance to talk but she gave me big hug after the service. That moment was one of the mental snapshots I took that day that remains mounted in my long-term memory. In that moment I realized, she understood. She knew what I had been through and that I had done the best that I could to handle the situation. I had always liked her, however in those few seconds, she went from old-world, stuck-in-her-ways neighbor to open-minded, understanding friend. She had never meant to judge us; she was just being open and honest. Traits I couldn’t appreciate when I was younger, and have come to cherish as an adult.

 

            When I’m back in the area, I’ll drive through my old neighborhood. I used to hope to catch Mrs. Socks outside so I could stop and say hello. I guess I didn’t have the nerve to just go to the door; especially since I had no idea if they even lived there anymore. I suspected not; they were pretty elderly when we moved away and this was many years later. I drove by there this past winter. There were other people out front that clearly lived there now. It made me realize that I let too many relationships from that time drift away. Perhaps that’s why I’m much more conscientious about keeping in touch now. Like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, they’re not part of my day-to-day life anymore, but they hold a special meaning for me and are worth revisiting from time-to-time.