Peanut butter

I have it on diverse testimony and substantial indirect evidence that non-Yanks find peanut butter confusing if not unqualifiedly disgusting. There are perfectly banal things to say here, that these matters are cultural, one’s palate gets trained as a child, food consumption follows marketing, etc. After all, while I’ve made happy painstaking inroads to craving marmite (and do), I just can’t get on with butter tea or that ghastly bitter bubbly piss served everywhere in Berlin. Nothing essential or true rides on all this. But another part of me balks. Peanut butter? I love all kinds. From the cheap, sugary preservative smooth Skippy sludge to the artisanal organic human rights activist farmer ground it himself in front of my twinkling eyes kind. Yeah, love that, too. So it is slow painful torture that I can’t get pb in many places I travel. It is for me perfect touring food, put on everything, or just eaten straight in sporkfulls. Then cut open the empty jar and scrape the inside with fragments of chocolate.

I forgot to pack peanut butter on my last tour. That was imbecilic.