I am, in fact, a rather large fan of peanut butter. I grew up on the stuff. We had Skippy Super Chunk most of the time when I was a kid, although we did try the "do-it-yourself" version when my mom got her first food processor. (It was nice, but not practical.)
These days, Christopher and I keep a jar of Creamy Jif in the cupboard at all times. (I put up a little bit of a fuss changing over from Skippy, but I've adjusted.) And most weeks I bring Peanut Butter and Strawberry Jam sandwiches to work with me at least once or twice. After all, just because you had it as a kid doesn't mean you can't have it as an adult, right?
Well, with the new "kid" in the house, the importance of peanut butter has drastically changed this week. Suddenly, just having the jar visible is a point of stress. And opening it... well... that causes all sorts of angst from below the level of the counter.
This morning, as I was making my sandwich, I looked down to see two of the most soulful, sad, hopeful, and pathetic eyes staring up at me. Pleading. Hoping. But not quite begging.
I made my sandwich, wrapped it up, and put the jar away as quickly as I could. Feeling oddly guilty for packing my lunch instead of buying something when I got to work.
This could be a very expensive guilt-trip.
3 comments:
Poor dear needs to gain weight. A teaspoon couldn't hurt.
Sounds like she used to get a little peanut butter in her old life...question is, if you give her a teaspoon, how do you set the rules so she doesn't bug you every time you open a jar?
It's a great way to get her to take her pill. Just a little dab of peanut butter helps the medecine go down! (Apologies to Julie Andrews.)
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