Category: Food (page 2 of 2)


Peanut Butter and Banana and Jam Sandwich... Yum!

Peanut Butter and Banana and Jam Sandwich… Yum!

One day my wife says to me, you must be hungry, you haven’t had any supper.

No no, I’m fine, thanks, I tell her. I’ll have a little something later.

You really should eat something now, shouldn’t you? she says.

I’m fine, I insist. It’s good to fast once in awhile, gotta keep that girlish figure.

I’ll tell you what, she says. If I make you a sandwich, will you eat it?

You don’t have to make me sandwich, I tell her.

I want to make you a sandwich, she says. What kind of sandwich do you want?

I don’t really want any kind of sandwich, I tell her.

Okay but if you did want a sandwich, what kind of sandwich would you want?

I tell her that if I did want a sandwich, which I don’t, but if I did, I would want a peanut butter and jam and banana sandwich. My favourite.

I’m going to make you a peanut butter and jam and banana sandwich, she says. I’m going to make it right now.

That’s very kind, I tell her. Thank you.

I go walk the dog. I’m not really very hungry, I think, walking the dog. The last thing I want is a sandwich. But if she makes it I’ll eat it. She’s just looking out for me, I know.

I get back and towel the dog off (it was a cold, wet night). I let him off his leash, take my boots off, enter the kitchen. My wife’s on the phone. I can tell it’s going to be a long call. The peanut butter jar sits on the counter, alongside the jam, a couple of slices of bread and a banana. My wife’s making apologetic motions to me. Motions that say, there’s all the stuff, all you have to do now is make the sandwich.

I don’t want to make the sandwich. I don’t want the sandwich. All I want to do is sit down and watch tv.

I make the sandwich anyway. I eat it. It’s very good. It is, after all, my favourite sandwich in the world.

My wife gets off the phone. Sorry about that, she says. I really was going to make you the sandwich, and then my sister called.

I know, I tell her. I appreciate that.

And I do.

Hmm... chocolatey goodness

Hmm… chocolatey goodness

You know, I think of myself as a fairly grown up guy, reasonably mature, self sufficient, yadda yadda yadda. And maybe I am all these things in several respects of my life. Okay… two or three respects. All right, I can dress myself, that much at least I can do.

But recently I realized that I’m not at all mature or reasonable when it comes to chocolate. I have a secret addiction, a secret shame. When nobody’s looking, and I’m all alone… I dip into the chocolate chip cupboard. The cupboard with all the baking supplies. There’s a little cup with a cover on it in which we keep chocolate chips, the semi-sweet kind for baking. And it’s important to keep these chocolate chips, or there would be no baking, at least no baking with chocolate chips in it.

Which is why it’s such a bad thing when I dip into these chocolate chips. Which I don’t do very often, understand, certainly no more than eight, nine times an hour. Did I say hour? I meant day… yeah, that’s it. Okay, maybe I’m not quite that bad. But who am I kidding, it is bad. A sweet tooth that may well lead to NO teeth some day. But tasty, darned tasty, and better than smoking or alcoholism I would think. Except for the trans fats they’re probably loaded with… you know what, I don’t even want to look at the ingredients. As long as the chocolate chips have chocolate in them, that’s all I need to know.

So the other day I dip into them when Lynda’s downstairs. Suddenly, uh oh, she’s coming up stairs and I’VE STILL GOT THE CHOCOLATE CHIP CUP IN MY HANDS! There’s no time to put it back. I clutch it to myself, turn my back to Lynda, and kind of huddle in the corner of the kitchen.

Lynda says, “So Joe, I was wondering… hey, whattaya doing, what’ve you got there?”

And she comes over and I sheepishly show her the chocolate chip cup. And of course I’m still kinda chewin’ on a few chips. It was like I was a little kid again, caught red-handed.

But she’s a good wife, a good friend.

“Don’t eat them all,” she said. “I don’t want to be all out when it’s time to make chocolate chip cookies.”

And if that isn’t reason enough to restrain myself at least a tiny little bit, I don’t know what is.

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