Paper # 6-Chelsea Banks

The Good, The Bad, and Peanut Butter

When I reflect on peanut butter, the memorable days of kindergarten are fixed in my brain. With shouts and cries and sounds of the playground swing sets squeaking as they swing back and forth, the children around me run and laugh because we are enjoying the hot, radiant sunshine on the top of our sweaty heads. We stand in line for the whirly slide because it is a definite favorite among the crowd—being the thrill of a lifetime, or so we thought. The smell of freshly cut grass and must surround me; yet my mind is not focusing on recess.
What did my mother pack in my lunch today?The teacher blows that loud, annoying whistle that is our prompt to jump off the swings, slide one last time, or strike at that yellow tetherball again. My teacher holds her hand high in the air so we can all see which line we are getting in; it is not good to end up leaving with the wrong teacher or wrong class. “Let’s go class! You’re going to be late for lunch!” she yells. She assumes we all prefer the excitements of the playground to the wonders of the cafeteria.
Once we arrive in the largest room associated with elementary school, diversity is evident. Some kids bring their lunches; some kids do not.My mother explains her reasoning for packing my lunch, “I want to know what you are consuming!”I think she simply wants to save money. Either way, I enjoy the personalized lunches she packs everyday in my Polly Pocket lunch box. My favorite sandwich, the famous peanut butter and jelly, is the norm. I loathe the day my mother will pack me a bologna sandwich, or one with solely cheese and ketchup, like the freckled boy, Elijah, eats everyday. While some kids frown despondently at the surprise in their own box, or maybe at the mysterious object the cafeteria lady put on their lunch tray, I smile with anticipation. As I unwrap my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, my friend turns to face me. “Wanna trade?” she so boldly asks. I give her a look of disagreement. “I’d rather not…I’m allergic to bologna.” Then I hurriedly turn back to my main focus.
It is possible for an object of your main focus to be your first thought when you awake in the morning. One day I woke to the beams of sunlight singing as beautiful a tune as the sparrow on the fencepost. I arose not only to remember I had spent the night at my grandparents’ house, but also to smell the marvelous kitchen downstairs. It does not take long for me to run down the stairs to see what creates that incredible aroma. Neither does it take long for my grandmother to scold my impatient manner. “Don’t choo run down them stairs!” “I’m sorry.” I lie. “I’ve told you about that. One of these days you’re gonna fall.” We sit at her oval table to view the plethora of pancakes stacked like a spectacular, tiered, wedding cake. Although the margarine and maple syrup are placed on the table, I question the whereabouts of the peanut butter. My grandfather looks at me with raised brows and a confusing look on his face. “What d’you need that for?” I find it ironic that my family, the people who are expected to know me the best, often question my undying love for this granular paste. One of my favorite meals is hot, fresh pancakes, topped with peanut butter and syrup. This unique and interesting combination powered my revolution to try it with waffles.
At Waffle House one Saturday morning, a waitress works her way around our group taking individual orders. She turns to face me with an exasperated expression across her face. “What can I do for you, honey?” I can tell she has been working for a long period of time and if truth be told, she does not care about me. Even so, I order two waffles with a side of bacon that ends up being drenched in enough oil to last a whole body massage. My meal is not complete without the addition of some smooth, creamy, peanut butter. As the worn-out waitress starts to walk away, I slip in the question. “Do you have any peanut butter?” She gives me a concerned eye, and then laughs softly. Many people find peanut butter as a condiment so out of the ordinary.
Do you consider yourself obsessed? Some of my friends ask me this with comic stares. If obsession qualifies as going to Red Lobster and ordering a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, instead of the Fish of the Day, then…yes, I have an obsession. Whether it is smooth and creamy or nutty and crunchy, peanut butter is my character. Sensibly, I am not a jar of peanut butter; however it is engulfed in the depth of my consciousness. The smooth type of peanut butter is an easygoing roll of the ocean—peaceful waters. On the other hand, the crunchy peanut butter is a hurricane—full of debris and swirled into a rough entity. These differing types of peanut butter are like my different thoughts on life. There are good times and bad times; all that matters…is how to approach them.
I remember the days of high school; the memories overflow. I am in my high school auditorium for the annual beauty pageant. I look at my reflection in the mirror—smudged from the multitude of make-up covered hands tapping it before. Is this who I am? Me. The girl in the reflection? I anxiously wait backstage until my chance to speak with the judges. The personal interview portion of the pageant counts a large percentage, and I want to be completely relaxed—like loose curls. Nerves are high; smiles are fake. The pageant coordinator calls my number. It is my turn to speak with the judges. “Just be yourself.” I repeatedly think in my head. Over the course of the interview I try to be casual, yet sophisticated. The best thing to do is let the judges notice your personality. So I finish my introduction and wait for my interview question. At this point, I cannot help but notice the violent chattering of my teeth. “If you could ask Santa Clause for one present this year, what would you ask for and why?” A sensation of relief came over my whole nervous body. At that moment, I knew what to say: what I felt. “If I could ask Santa Clause for one present this year, I would ask for a year supply of peanut butter. Why, you ask? I adore the delicious treat; I even believe it should have its own food group. I could never live without my peanut butter!” After I answered the question, I waited for their response. Thoughts are racing through my head. Allowing each moment to happen as it will is how I live my life. With hopes for the future, I continue to believe in the inevitable; but every moment is approachable in a different manner. The judges are smiling. They are actually smiling. And I feel so comfortable, just like the next time I place that jar of JIF securely in my shopping cart.
What is it about this paste that sets me apart from the character, or even personality of others? Why do I have such a craving for it?
Simply, this phenomenon is by chance. I cannot find the reason or the evidence to prove why this paste composed merely of peanuts and salt is my desire. Such an uncomplicated substance can be presented as complicated if enough thought is asserted; yet peanut butter is just peanut butter! Likewise, I am who I am: a truly uncomplicated individual who may sometimes appear as a complex. However, my life stories make me who I am. And peanut butter…is the adhesive paste that holds my stories together.