Dear Peanut Butter –
It feels like we have been together forever. We’ve fed so many generations of children. But I feel that it is time we part ways. I’m afraid you’ve just become too toxic. I have my reputation to protect. You have just become too dangerous for me. You’re a killer just waiting an unsuspecting kid to come in contact with you. Where did this come from? You used to be so great with kids. You made celery more fun to eat, willing to play “ants on a log.” Now preschools and elementary schools are banning you from lunches. Those schools that do allow you, have to keep you separated at separate tables. You may brush this off or even relish in your new “bad boy image” among the sandwich spreads. Are you trying to be like Sriracha sauce? Is this sort of midlife crisis? Trying to get attention? Get a sports car for crying out loud!
I stayed with you when you faltered, cheating on me with that floozy from Massachusetts, Marshmallow Creme, running around town together as a Fluffernutter. I wanted a divorce then, sure, but I stayed together for all the future generations of children we would feed. The thought of all those kids opening their lunch boxes and seeing a slice of bread with only jelly or with only peanut butter, open-faced, broke my heart. And think of the mess that would have been created. Mothers would have cursed us and likely have gone to something cleaner and easier like bologna or cream cheese and cucumbers. I could not live with that. Have you seen bologna made?!
Things went well for us until Elvis came along. I knew hanging out with him would come to no good. The rock-n-roll! The drugs! The peanut butter, banana, and bacon sandwiches! That was the hardest to accept: another fruit. A firm, skinny blonde one at that. How could I compete with a fruit like that? I am made for spreading, not teasingly peeling my skin off to reveal a lithe, firm body that can be seductively eaten or sliced. You knew that before we got together.
I can understand experimenting with bacon. If that was what you wanted, I would have been willing to give it a try. To be honest, I’ve had my own fantasies about bacon. More than a few times being scrunched together in Ziploc bags, waiting out the morning until lunch time, I thought about how sexy it would be to have a piece of bacon pressed between us, a little of you on one side, a little of me on the other. You should have opened up to me, shared your feelings – but you never excelled at that. “A Little Less Conversation” should not have been heard as marital advice! “Love Me Tender” should have been your guiding instructions.
Those post-Banana times were the hardest times. I was humiliated, ashamed and embarrassed to be around our friends, the Preserves, and the Marmalades, and the nice Indian couple that moved in down the cupboard, the Chutneys.
I know you were depressed after Elvis died, but his death should have been a warning to you. He let himself go and ate himself to an early death. When we were first together you were so smooth, so creamy. But then came along the chunky version of you and then extra crunchy. It was like you didn’t care anymore.
Thankfully, the no-carb/low carb craze came along. You – we – benefited. You lost weight, got back into the shape, gained some popularity. Those times were good. I felt the magic coming back. But, then out nowhere, you are making children sick at alarming rates. Allergies. Severe allergies. Why, PB? What has gotten into you? Don’t blame it on the kids. I know they can be picky eaters at times, but they are innocent. Why take out whatever you are going through on them?
Actually, I don’t care. I don’t want to know. I’ve had enough. It’s time that I move on. I need to find a sandwich spread that is more faithful and less dangerous.
I will be staying with the Smuckers until I get a place of my own. Please don’t contact me.
No longer yours,