When you’re young, it’s the cookie jar. Steal when you’re not supposed to, and fear being castigated.
That’s what the age old children’s song tells us, at least.
And when you’re old (or a hungry young adult too preoccupied to make an actual meal), it’s the peanut butter jar. Dip into it when you shouldn’t and, well, the jar will be empty in no time and you’ll soon feel like an unhealthy, overweight glutton.
But that PB is sooooo good, right?
Yeah, just when I thought the habit was a thing of the past, I just grabbed a spoon and full jar of the creamy goodness only to finish half of it in a sitting. Bad, but not close to the obscenity of inhaling wholesale sized portions of Skippy the way I did even four years ago. As if I didn’t already have a portion control problem with the majority of food I consume, peanut butter always seems to grab me at my weakest. It’s my culinary Achilles heel, as I’m sure it is to countless others.
For ages now, I’ve said I’m actually going to watch what I eat…if for any other reason, to be healthy. You’d think with a set of newly inked ribs, I would have already started. But alas, I haven’t…and chances are, unless I suddenly catch myself gaining 30 pounds and developing a set of cankles, I probably won’t.
I love food. This country loves food. So when the politicos speak of an epidemic plaguing our children, and once you’ve acknowledged the truth of their case, toast to the one commonality we all share. It’s something politics, race, and religion will never accomplish.
C’mon everybody, glass half full.