by Emily Adams
When winter blues roll around, I reach for a jar of Smuckers, some good old Skippy and two hometown slices of whole wheat bread. Smiling heightens endorphins, frowning causes wrinkles, and a PB & J breeds happiness and butterflies. In the darkness of midterm season, sandwiched between library shelves, I discovered that my fondness for the sweet treat was nothing short of a national revolution. Rather than pruning my Shakespearean oratory skills, I chose to teach myself everything there was to know about the jammin’ gem, English 140 paper be damned.
Peanut butter and jelly—the pride and joy of the American kitchen—has been the focus of a foodie frenzy. Honey, Nutella, Olallieberry jam—you name it, they’ve slapped it between two pieces of bread. The findings? Remarkable. Dare I say, the pictures of the findings are the icing on the cake.
Browsing through Instagram, I discovered accounts dedicated to the art with handles like @peanutbutterbabe, @jammingwifjelly, and @buttafromanothamotha documenting the sandwich’s ascent to greatness. Peanut Butter and Jelly is no longer a mid-day pick-me-up; instead, it has assumed cultural and aesthetic supremacy.
The nut, an essential aspect of the PB and J equation, is in fact, a variable component. From almonds, to cashews, to hazelnuts, our beloved peanut-butter has been eclipsed. Whole Foods customers, bright-eyed and boasting their top-tier cardiac health, layer their exotic butters between thick slices of triple-seed, home-grown, yeast-free, hippy-dippy grains. They bite into a berry burst of tread-free anti-GMO goodness, just like Ma used to make. Oh, wait.
If the construction wasn’t enough, the presentation surely tops it off. According to these Insta PB & J fanatics, the sandwich is best consumed in paradise, wherever that may be. Enjoy your sandy on a warm summer hillside, under the stars of the Vienna skyline, floating down the Amazon—the possibilities are endless.
But something about the long-ago artificial smoothness of Skippy has me longing for the good old days. Give me back that partially hydrogenated palm oil, those rusty swing sets, some buzzing fire ant hills, and mom’s soggy old packed lunches. The touch, the feel, the magic of childhood, something only a measly slice of Wonder Bread, grape jelly, and spreadable PB can recall. Nothing better.
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