Come the windy, chilly, soaking months of autumn, everyone's talking about comfort food. After all, when we're freezing our asses off and stuck inside because of yet another rain storm or icy-road blockage, we look for just about anything to remind us that it's all okay, life is still good, and food is still delicious.
I've never met a peanut butter and jelly sandwich I didn't like (except perhaps with those icky breads that insist whey or milk fat makes it "better"). That there's my comfort food. The whole wheat nuttiness of bread, the salty nuttiness of peanut butter, and the sweetness of jam all coheres into a soft delicacy like hand-held pie. I've never been sick of the sandwiches, not since elementary school, not since ever. I'm a little Cindy Brady that way. The only times I've had myself lay off the stuff have been when I get a little too paranoid about calories and fat grams (I'm still adjusting to the calm-the-fuck-down, eat-mostly-fruit, don't-put-additives-in-your-mouth Skinny Bitch mindset).
So, here's to you, PB&J. Always the when-in-doubt rehearsal snack, always a decent breakfast, always a mid-day comfort. Here's to your versatility - your humble adaptation to your more hoity-toity cousins, cashew and almond butters, and your posh niece, fruit preserves. Even though most of us grew up with you on the old-fashioned, dairy-ridden, empty-calorie monstrosity that is Wonderbread white bread, we appreciate your sophisticated reincarnation on Dave's Killer bread or homemade spelt. Here's to many more years and work breaks and picnics and children's lunches.
May you live long and, um... prosper, and such.
I call it, Sandwich in Abstract.
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