by Al Drinkle
In the introduction to his immense tome, The Food of France, Waverley Root recounts, “I once worked in New York with a young man whose noon lunch was invariable—a sandwich composed of the rather startling combination of peanut butter and jelly”. While conceding that the synergy of peanut butter and jelly is hardly the domain of haute cuisine, I was surprised that any North American would find the union to be “startling". The publication date of 1958 could hardly explain it either. The National Peanut Board of America notes that the Incas and Aztecs were known to grind roasted peanuts into a paste, and that by 1884 such a product had been patented. By 1958, peanut butter must have found its way to jelly, and I know with certainty that by this time at least one Canadian was regularly engaging in far more startling combinations.
I'm the eldest son of an eldest son of an eldest son, and I'm at least a third generation peanut butter devotee. My paternal grandparents had a relatively typical diet for their generation. Their dinners would feature some protein or other as the centrepiece, almost always accompanied by potatoes and perhaps another vegetable preparation as a compliment. But at a very early age, I began to notice an inordinate mealtime pattern in their home.
Regardless of his enthusiasm for the food, or the extent to which he would praise my grandmother's efforts, my grandfather invariably served himself modest portions of dinner. Then, partway through the meal, he would disappear into the kitchen with his empty plate, only to return with a sandwich consisting of the whitest, most industrial bread known to humankind dressed with whatever protein was being served, and… peanut butter! This means that over the years, I witnessed the combination of peanut butter with roast beef, steak, hamburger, turkey, barbecued chicken, salmon, rainbow trout, ginger beef, bratwurst, ham and bacon, to name a few. Were this not enough to cause Waverley Root to thrash about in his grave, at other times of day my grandfather was known to indulge in a peanut butter sandwich, with jam, as a quick snack or a light lunch.
My grandfather is presently in a care home, sadly lacking a considerable portion of awareness in his twilight years. I wonder if he occasionally lobbies for outlandish peanut butter sandwich combinations during meals, only to have his requests dismissed as inane mutterings. In the meantime, my father remains an active peanut butter enthusiast, albeit with minor generational deviations.
Unlike my grandfather, my father takes full participation in the dinnertime meal. But then, undeterred by these sufficient quantities, and just like his predecessor, he proceeds seamlessly into the peanut butter course *. His major innovation is the application of peanut butter to toast as opposed to bread. The peanut butter always sits atop a lavish quantity of butter, and he'll dabble with jam or jelly on occasion and according to whim. A recent altering of his technique is to allow a slight cooling of the toast before dressing it. This way, he claims, the condiments don't drain through the permeable network of the bread, only to pool upon the plate.
Throughout my lifetime, my father's choices of ingredients have improved immensely. This is probably due to the positive influence of my mother, whose health-conscious tendencies have guided him towards artisanal bread and peanut butter consisting solely of peanuts and salt. My father eats peanut butter toast on an almost daily basis, but only sporadically over the years—as if in homage but without the conviction for it to become a regular proclivity—have I ever seen him engage in the bizarre peanut butter combinations that were so dear to my grandfather.
These are the men that came before me, and the fabric from which I was woven. I enjoyed peanut butter as a young child, but with considerably less fanaticism than my father. Seventh grade was my first school year that required a daily packed lunch, and out of sheer laziness I would almost invariably bring a peanut butter and jam sandwich. A few months of this was enough to banish peanut butter from my dietary repertoire for almost two decades.
My love for peanut butter wasn't awoken until I was in my early thirties. One evening during a visit to my parents’ place, I was under the heavy influence of marijuana and the toasted treat that my father had made for himself looked irresistible. I accepted his offer of a slice, and it was a revelation. The way the crunch of the toast played off the melting, charmingly adhesive quality of the rich, resinous and terrestrial peanut butter, all knit by the lusciousness of excessive butter was utterly enchanting. Ever since, peanut butter toast has proven to be such a satisfying indulgence on stoned evenings that I've had to set personal boundaries.
I deviate from my father and grandfather by leaving the dinner table and letting my meal settle with time and activity before considering the traditional snack. Like my father, I prefer it on toast, but almost exclusively after indulging in the chalice. If I anticipate the session far enough in advance, I like to slice the bread, let the peanut butter decant on the countertop, and assemble all requisite materials so that when the snack attack strikes, the preparation can be entirely methodical.
I prefer a thickly cut slice of sourdough toast, more or less saturated with melted butter. Inevitably some will be lost to the plate, but with all due respect to my father's strategy of letting the toast cool to avoid this, it's important to me that the peanut butter also melt a little. And notwithstanding my general respect for Waverley Root's palate, I subscribe to peanut butter's synergy with jam, but will add it according to mood and availability—this tasty innovation is certainly the least essential component. However, a judicious sprinkling of Maldon salt is indispensable.
All of the above makes for a delectable peanut butter experience, and my favourite way to continue the tradition of my lineage. When I'm feeling particularly irreverent, I eat the snack in bed, delighting in the luscious flavours and the alluring dichotomy of texture as sourdough shrapnel splinters in every direction.
* On my most recent visit to my parents’ home, I witnessed my father enjoy his peanut butter toast course in tandem with dinner—thereby, alongside curried vegetable soup and a green salad with miso vinaigrette.
