Two Unthinkable ThingsOne: I have run out of jelly.
This poses a problem, for there are few things as oddly beautiful as a peanut butter & jelly sandwich. I know them well. I have eaten smears of sugary, creamy peanut butter and bitingly sweet jam on slices of wonder bread, pulled with care from small clear plastic bags. I have eaten gentle tea sandwiches of delicate peanut butter and spicy marmalade on pullman bread. I have had them on toast, thick toast, where the heat of the slice wakes up the peanuts and makes the preserves run quick. I like them on the soft brown bread they make in coffee cans, I like them in pita bread, I like them on stout baguettes, a yard's worth of sticky, squeezey, heavenly lunch.
I have learned some things (some of which with you may violently disagree). I have found the perfect bread for the damn things to be unseeded deli rye, big floppy slices that ride soft in the hand and give the sandwich a subtle tang. Some would argue for the large jars of industrially smashed and sweetened peanut, syrupy and smooth, but I do not: from the peanut butter I want the taste of roasted nuts and salt, heavy on the tongue with oil. I save the dulcet notes for the jam, thick and bright with a summer's sweetness from a time when sweet meant juice on the chin, and not a tank truck filled with corn extract. The important part is the juggle: getting this just right with that, so that there is flavor and play.
But I have run out of jelly. I have bananas, but that is another story.
Two: I canceled the cable.
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