I am a staunch believer that peanut butter (or more accurately the peanut in it’s original form, as peanut butter, or in a sauce or similar condiment), goes with just about everything. Years ago while on an all-girls Spring Break camping trip to Gabriola Island, I experienced the wonder of peanut butter on falafel; it was glorious, although I do realize that anything even remotely decent tastes glorious while camping. I’ve many times touted the simple delight of a peanut-butter-and-dill-pickle sandwich and before you ask, I’ve been eating them since I was a teenager, way, way before I ever became pregnant. Peanuts in stir fry, peanuts in salad, peanut butter in sauces and dressings, on ice cream, spread over apple slices... whether sweet or savoury, peanuts can and will take your food to the next level. To this end, I have never understood people who don’t like peanut butter and feel sorry for those who are allergic, although an allergy is a completely understandable excuse for not partaking of this spirited legume; not liking it is, to me, simply beyond comprehension. I am certain that the peanut haters are just as passionate in their argument and I respect that (even though they are wrong).
Peanut butter and I go back a long way. I don’t hesitate when asked what my comfort foods are; the first thing that comes to mind is peanut butter on toast, since it was the easiest thing to make when I was a kid and I happily ate it again and again. Of course I have many other comfort foods, but they are mostly things I grew to love as I grew older. Peanut butter is the one comfort food that stretches right back to my early childhood.
There are a few things I can’t imagine going well with peanuts. A peanut-butter-and-cheddar-cheese sandwich sounds just awful, although I’ve never had occasion to try it. But I think peanuts and cheese could indeed go together in the proper application; I have seen recipes for peanut-butter cheesecake and a salad with a peanutty-goat-cheese dressing. You just need to be creative.
When my brother Keith’s last girlfriend got up to say a few words at his memorial service back in 1998, she told a story about having breakfast at one of their favourite diners. They had just received their meals, the usual eggs/meat/toast affair, and Keith was teasing her about something. Keith loved to tease the people that he loved. He took great pleasure in getting a reaction from you, whether it was one of pleasure, disgust or even anger. I honestly think he saw a reaction of disgust as a victory; I will never forget his roaring laughter at making me squeamish about something and once he knew the way in, he would employ it again and again. The thing is, at least with me, he was never cruel about it; he never wanted me to be truly upset, just flustered.
I can’t remember what Keith was teasing her about and it doesn’t really matter; what matters is what he did to finally get his desired rise out of her. Keith slathered a piece of toast with peanut butter and added a heaping forkful of scrambled eggs drowned in ketchup. Then, looking her straight in the eye, he brought that breakfast aberration up to his lips, took a huge bite and chewed it with a big grin on his face while she grimaced and gagged.
Everyone at the memorial service laughed at this story and those who knew Keith well nodded their heads, likely remembering a time when Keith had subjected them to something similar. I could easily think of a few instances, but the thought that rolled through my mind was, “Leave it to Keith to bring to my attention the one thing I can’t imagine going with peanut butter: ketchup.” I haven't been able to look at a plate of scrambled eggs the same way since.
I can clearly see the wicked twinkle in his eye, I can hear his pleased and pleasing laughter; I've imagined it so many times, it almost feels like my own memory, as if I were the one sitting across from Keith that morning. I've embellished this story in my mind and made it my own over these last thirteen years. In my imagined recollection, I've played up my disgust in order to revel in his delight and in doing so, I've realized that I had always done this; I had always protested a little too much and too loudly because as much as it pleased Keith to make me squirm, it was just as fun to watch him enjoy my squirming.
In some way, I've come to think of this story as my last true memory of Keith. It's likely that my heart and mind simply willed this memory into existence; the shock of losing Keith after not seeing him for at least six months left me scrambling to fill a chasm I felt complicit in creating. It's also likely that I will never stop formulating a final conversation with Keith in my mind; I've rehearsed what I would tell him thousands of times and knowing that he will never hear it has never stopped me from thinking of just one more thing to say. But aside from the obvious proclamations of love, my side of the conversation almost always starts by wondering if peanut butter and ketchup could ever co-exist. After that, I would happily sit back and wait to be disgusted.
