AMONG the perils of peanut butter, I find, are its sickly smell and the sticky sensation it creates in the mouth. An almost full jar has been sitting in our fridge ever since my last crank diet some six months ago, when three teaspoonsful a day were a required supplement.
Of course, if you like the taste, not to mention having your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth, you’re in good company with millions of people around the world.
In the US, it’s practically a way of life, and it’s had a huge following here for decades. Even in England sales are soaring – some 60million jars were sold there last year.
In spite of the surge in UK sales, New Yorker writer Jon Michaud says many Britons still find Americans’ love of peanut butter as mystifying as the Brits’ love of Marmite (“yeast extract on toast?”) is to him. (I’ve got news for Jon: Marmite not only mystifies me, too, it makes me gag.)
Even more mystifying to me was how peanut butter sneaked into my own life after the beloved persuaded me to join him on a business trip to Cape Town for a few days. Norma, my proxy mom, volunteered to take over the household, containing, among other treasures, our very small daughter who was at that fun stage when mealtimes involved either a bit of spoon chucking or a few chuckles (and that was just from me).
It was to be my first time away from baby girl, so I knew there’d be trouble. Given my fear of flying (and slight drama queen inclinations), it would most likely be a plane crash, I thought. I really didn’t want to go.
“She’ll never know how much I loved her,” I sobbed to the beloved.
“Nothing’s going to happen to us,” he said firmly. To which, I cried even harder. It was no good. I had a feeling, you see.
“Write her a letter then,” he urged. “Give it to Norma and she can pass it on when she’s old enough to understand how you feel about her. Not that anything will happen.”
Aaah! What a sweet man, you’re probably thinking. Well, not so much, it turned out … the second half of his soccer match was about to start on TV. Writing a letter would keep me out of his hair for 45 minutes or so, he rightly thought.
His prediction was right, too, but when we got back safely something was definitely amiss on the home front. Whatever I gave my child for breakfast, she tipped onto the floor, sobbing her heart out.
In a panic, I phoned Norma. “Calm down and get the peanut butter out of the fridge,” she instructed. The what?
(Did I mention Norma’s American?)
The foreign substance I found there turned out to be exactly what my baby girl was craving.
As for me, I’m still suspicious of the stuff. How can anything that gross be so addictive to so many? (I’m not suggesting that without it Elvis would still be around, but let’s be honest, all those deep-fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches surely contributed to his early demise.)
There’s a new book out about it now – John Krampner’s Creamy & Crunchy, a history of the gummy goo. Not surprisingly, it isn’t among the dozens on my current wish-list.
Today’s Chiel is Stevie Godson. E-mail her at
A mystifying gummy goo
Of course, if you like the taste, not to mention having your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth, you’re in good company with millions of people around the world.
In the US, it’s practically a way of life, and it’s had a huge following here for decades. Even in England sales are soaring – some 60million jars were sold there last year.
In spite of the surge in UK sales, New Yorker writer Jon Michaud says many Britons still find Americans’ love of peanut butter as mystifying as the Brits’ love of Marmite (“yeast extract on toast?”) is to him. (I’ve got news for Jon: Marmite not only mystifies me, too, it makes me gag.)
Even more mystifying to me was how peanut butter sneaked into my own life after the beloved persuaded me to join him on a business trip to Cape Town for a few days. Norma, my proxy mom, volunteered to take over the household, containing, among other treasures, our very small daughter who was at that fun stage when mealtimes involved either a bit of spoon chucking or a few chuckles (and that was just from me).
It was to be my first time away from baby girl, so I knew there’d be trouble. Given my fear of flying (and slight drama queen inclinations), it would most likely be a plane crash, I thought. I really didn’t want to go.
“She’ll never know how much I loved her,” I sobbed to the beloved.
“Nothing’s going to happen to us,” he said firmly. To which, I cried even harder. It was no good. I had a feeling, you see.
“Write her a letter then,” he urged. “Give it to Norma and she can pass it on when she’s old enough to understand how you feel about her. Not that anything will happen.”
Aaah! What a sweet man, you’re probably thinking. Well, not so much, it turned out … the second half of his soccer match was about to start on TV. Writing a letter would keep me out of his hair for 45 minutes or so, he rightly thought.
His prediction was right, too, but when we got back safely something was definitely amiss on the home front. Whatever I gave my child for breakfast, she tipped onto the floor, sobbing her heart out.
In a panic, I phoned Norma. “Calm down and get the peanut butter out of the fridge,” she instructed. The what?
(Did I mention Norma’s American?)
The foreign substance I found there turned out to be exactly what my baby girl was craving.
As for me, I’m still suspicious of the stuff. How can anything that gross be so addictive to so many? (I’m not suggesting that without it Elvis would still be around, but let’s be honest, all those deep-fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches surely contributed to his early demise.)
There’s a new book out about it now – John Krampner’s Creamy & Crunchy, a history of the gummy goo. Not surprisingly, it isn’t among the dozens on my current wish-list.
Today’s Chiel is Stevie Godson. E-mail her at
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