Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are a staple in my house. Actually, scratch that. They are more than a staple. There have been days when they have been breakfast, lunch and dinner. I’m pretty sure that when Isla grows up and has children of her own they’ll ask one day what special meal her mom made, and then Isla will have to think about it for about .00001 seconds before she says, “peanut butter and jelly.”
It’s not that I can’t cook, but I’ll be honest, I don’t really like to. I wish, with a snap of my fingers, I could turn into Julia Child with her deep voice and prominent stature and roast a duck like the French do…….but, meat scares me, I’m a little bit absent minded so I tend to forget about eggs when I’m boiling them and the fact is, I would so much rather spend any spare second I have reading a book over standing in the kitchen. Sometimes, you just have to embrace who you are, and that’s where the PB&J comes into play.
When I picked up Isla from pre-school the other day I checked her lunchbox to see if she had eaten her sandwich and apple and juice. Most all of the sandwich was still there so I asked her if she wasn’t hungry at lunch. “No mom,” she replied, “There was a berry in my sandwich.” She said it with such shock and disgust at the fact that an actual strawberry (which she loves by the way) would be in her strawberry jam. I told her it was the same jam we have used forever, or at least the same kind she had been eating for the last 4 years. She said she was pretty sure it wasn’t……and then I forgot about the whole thing.
That night, I came home from running an errand and walked into the house to hear Danny explaining to Isla in the deepest of detail how jam is made. I stood outside of the bedroom door and listened in as Danny showed her the sandwich he had made and explained how the berries are picked and smashed and added to sugar and packaged and shipped and then sent to Fred Meyers and bought by us.
I smiled because I knew Danny would be this man. The type that would do his daughter’s hair in pigtails every single day because he thinks that’s the cutest. The type that plays Lion Guard or Sheriff Callie or PJ Masks every night with our girl. The type of dad who will stop watching a soccer game just to explain how jam is made. Because if he hadn’t, our girl was going stop eating PB&J’s out of fear of there being a berry in her sandwich, and then would have a diet that consisted of only BBQ chips and apples……which would probably mean I’d have to learn to cook something else. So thank you Danny, from the bottom of my un-Julia Child heart.
❤ PB&J Master Chef