A few nights ago, Vicky was coming home late and I was stuck for something to eat.
Hmmm… what to eat? The problem is there’s never anything to eat in our house. There’s plenty of food, mind you. There’s just nothing to eat.
Food. (noun) Anything that can be put together to make something to eat.
Something to eat. (better noun) Something you don’t have to put together… cause you eat it.
So, I’m looking in our fridge… there’s some peanut butter… some condiments… some bread… some soy milk… some jelly… a couple of beers… Wait a minute, I thought! I can make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich! The thought didn’t occur to me right away, I think, because I’m long past the age of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Honestly, I haven’t had a PB&J in years!
And there I was, in my kitchen, the bread open like two, ripe thighs… wait… it was whole wheat… um, two melanin-blessed or very well tanned thighs… where was I? I opened the jar of jelly and laid down a decadent slathering of the sweet stuff. I opened the jar of organic peanut butter and…
Stir. Stir. (The price I pay for healthier food.) Stir. Stir. (But, then again, my arm is getting a workout.) Stir. Stir. (That’s right. Work those guns!) Stir.
… and then I laid a out generous (if tenuously spread, not wanting to rip the bread) helping of mortar.
And slapped them together.
Okay, I gotta tell you, it’s fucking heaven. How is it we forget about these things we loved so much in our youth? My god! Amazing!
And, you know, even as I write this, I’m thinking of making one for dinner tonight.
Maybe even two!