So I’m pondering my dinner tonight and decide I want a PB & J. It’s hotter than hell, I’ve already got the oven fired up doing some more baking and I just don’t feel like cooking an actual meal, so a peanut butter and jelly sammich seems like the easiest thing.
There’s an art to the PB & J, I think. Sure, you can slap each on some bread, smoosh and you’re out the door, but one can craft a truly beautiful PB & J with the proper ingredients. For me, peanut butter and jelly perfection consists of JIF. Not Skippy, not Peter Pan and sure as hell not that Old-Fashioned-Oil-at-the-Top-Gotta-Stir-It-Reminds-Me-of-Olestra Laura Scudders crap. It’s JIF and JIF only in this house. Of course, I’m not inflexible. I oscillate between crunchy and smooth—occasionally extra-crunchy. More often than not, it’s smooth, though.
And jelly? Honestly, I’m more of a jam girl. Strawberry, preferably. If all you have is grape, I won’t balk too much, but cram it if it’s plum or some jacked up hucklecluckle berry preserves. Or heaven forbid, marmalade. Who decided marmalade was acceptable on a PB & J? This isn’t a tea party. This is serious culinary stuff here.
There shall be no bananas or honey or marshmallow fluff. No crunchy patchouli hippie pit crystal sandpaper 7000 grain bread. It’s white bread or in a pinch, butter-top wheat, the way nature intended.
And for christ’s sake, no raisins. That’s just perverse.
