Watched the movie “Meet Joe Black” for the umpteenth time the other night. The moment he took the spoon crammed with peanut butter and ladled it in to his mouth, I made a mental note – I want some! I hadn’t had it for years.
I’ve now gone back to peanut butter. It’s like connecting with a long lost friend. Ladling it in to my mouth with a spoon, like Joe Black did, is something I can’t do, but a thick spread of it mixed with honey on a slice of bread really gets the juices flowing.
I realized something else about peanut butter, and it has everything to do with it’s looks. In its commonly shaped bottle, with its soft brown easy on the eyes colour, and a black cat nonchalantly staring at you and inviting you to, “have some, ” it’s probably one of the most homeliest of sights.
As a child I remember things getting lost in the kitchen, but never the peanut butter. Somehow its place had a sanctity about it. You never put it anywhere else and you never asked, “Where’s the peanut butter?” You just opened the cupboard door and there it was as faithful as the old mine hooter that sounded the end of the day’s work in the late afternoon. A kitchen was just not a kitchen without a bottle of peanut butter.
Only once did we desecrate the hallowed presence of this soft delight. My one sister received a much awaited doll with a diaper, or nappy as we called it. My brother and I went in to the room while she was out and put a spoonful of peanut butter in the doll’s nappy, and watched and waited for her reaction. When she finally opened the diaper and ran to my mom calling, “Mommy, mommy look, my dollie has done a pooh, ” we both collapsed with laughter behind the door.
I must say I’m still a little sorry we blighted the presence of peanut butter in that fashion. But anyway, I’m back to a restored and beautiful relationship with it, and because of its presence and pride of place, our kitchen is now more of a kitchen than ever.