A creamy smooth spoonful pressed cool against my tongue, a slightly sweet, slightly salty bite of bliss that sticks to the roof of my parched mouth, leaving me to scour frantically for a swallow of milk. Of all of man’s culinary triumphs, I dare say that peanut butter is among the greatest of inventions and, like it’s trusted companion the banana, is quite possibly the most perfect food. I myself am nowhere perfect, (I’m actually not so far off), but I feel that many of my most positive attributes can also be found in peanut butter.
How can a petite eighteen year old woman resemble a greasy, nutty condiment? In a bare pantry or a fully stocked one, I find contentment. I accept and try my best to ameliorate trying times or situations. Like peanut butter, I am incredibly versatile and harmonize well with most people and environments. What food, other than peanut butter, can taste equally delicious with every food group? It lends a flavorful nutrient boost to crackers, celery, ice cream and raisins. As for the sometimes dreadful, sometimes wonderful tackiness that peanut butter can create, I also tend to stick two things together. Through my wild and carefree gallivanting, I introduce my friends and myself to people and places that we might never have seen.
My grandmother, the wisest woman I know, once told me to be bold and courageous because I was going to screw up anyway, and I might as well do it with some enthusiasm. The experiences and memories adhere to me. The peanut butter in my stomach serves as the stitching on the patchwork quilt of my life.