I have had a peanut butter problem since as far back as my memory can go (both now and before I became a High Times subscriber). Every kid goes through many, many food phases. I went through one. And it stuck.
I ate peanut butter sandwiches of various forms during just about every lunch hour of my educational experience. My personal biography is in many ways little more than a series of sandwiches. I am often nostalgic for crust, bread, and places where I used to eat peanut butter. I think of these sandwiches as old friends: The peanut butter, banana and bacon number at the great Dave’s Pot Belly Stove in the Village when I lived in New York; the peanut butter, banana, jelly, and pickle spear concoction rolled into a burrito at Peanut Butter Fantasies while I was in grad school in Boston; the peanut butter, jelly, Bubbies, toaster hash browns, salt and vinegar chips, and chopped microwave sausages spread across a sourdough breakfast baguette that won (and probably nearly stopped) my wife’s heart. Then there is peanut butter on celery, peanut butter on apples, peanut butter on Matzoh (or cardboard, depending on your denomination), on bagels, on bananas, and even piled unevenly on the oversized, cool, smooth surface of a stainless steel spoon. Fuck yeah.
I love peanut butter. But more importantly for the statement you are about to read here, I know peanut butter. I know peanut butter the way Da Vinci knew fluid mechanics, the way Einstein knew physics, the way Grand Master Flash knows a turntable, the way Tom Brady knows how to perfectly balance throwing touchdowns and humping supermodels. I have eaten it. I have coddled it. I inhaled. What can I say? That’s how I spread.
You know how you get an old song stuck in your head and you can’t get rid of it? For me, that song includes the line: “First you take the peanuts and you crunch them, you crunch them.”
I have shared with jars of peanut butter my most private hopes and dreams. When I smell peanut butter, freshly toasted and bubbling into the nooks and crannies of an English Muffin, I feel the way I did when, during Three Times a Lady at an eighth grade dance, I first found the courage to slide my sweaty palms down past the small of a back to the gloriously tight rear pockets on a pair Chemin de Fers.
I can eat an entire container of peanut butter without consuming even a single drop of liquid.
I am here, with the utmost humility (and frankly, after a proofread or two, more than a little shame), but also with the utmost certitude, to tell you this:
Parkers Family Farms Peanut Butter is the best peanut butter in the world.
It’s all natural. But wait. Don’t squirm. I am not going for health here. I am not talking to the parental, or nurturing or healthful, caring, responsible person inside you. I am talking to the dirty, nasty, caution to the wind you. The one who came home a little too buzzed, got rid of the baby-sitter, put the wife to bed and sat down in front of the TiVo with a joint, a boda bag of Don Julio and six hours until daylight. Parkers Farms Peanut Butter is all natural, yes. But it’s also in your refrigerated section so it requires no stirring (an accomplishment that is right up there with the invention of the phone, the printing press, the original Mosaic web browser and at most one notch below fire and the wheel). Is this sinking in? The best taste. All natural. And no stirring, bitch.
Did I mention that the crunchy version of the peanut butter has whole peanuts in it? And you know how honey roasted peanut butter is only for complete pussies? Well Parkers honey roasted peanut butter is damn good.
You want to talk about breakthroughs? Sliced bread wasn’t shit until now.
Trust me, my friends. This is personal but it’s more than that. When I started this blog back in the nineties, I dreamed that one day I could use my words to serve a higher good. This is, at long last, the post I’ve been waiting for. Thank you. I love you.
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