An Ode to Peanut Butter and Jelly

Oh PBJ.  Beloved peanut butter and jelly.

We have spent every weekday morning together for the last three months.

Each morning I would blearily stumble down the stairs and begin to start the summer ritual.

Setting the pieces of bread on the counter.

Cursing the ones that molded overnight.

Wondering how exactly it was possible that squeezable jelly was so utterly un-squeezable.

Listening to the coffee brew while, each morning, I said a little "thank you" that there were no kids with peanut allergies at camp.

Because, while I had guilt over serving you every single day, I'd have even more guilt if it has just been jelly sandwiches.

But our time together has come to an end.

Today was our last morning.

The boys are headed back to the lunch line.  Back to Italian Dunkers.  And Hmong Beef and Rice.  And Rotini Hotdish (only in Minnesota).

Back to my willingness to pay $1.50 for them to have some variety in their diet.

Thanks for whatever semblance of nutrition you have provided this summer.

I can only hope that there will never be a study that comes out showing that eating PBJ for three months straight makes children go crazy.

Because making it for three months straight sure has made me a little crazy.

See you next June.