Some people think it is childish to be eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich by the time you reach high school, but I don’t care. Besides, I’m still just a child; at least I wish to stay one for as long as I can. I’m in no hurry to grow up. And bringing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to school everyday gives me the sense of security that my mom will always be there to make one for me.
But, honestly, it wasn’t the appreciation for my mom’s lunches that made me fall in love with these sandwiches. Actually, it was the day I complained to her about having this for lunch everyday. In an act of rebellion, I decided that I was tired of eating these “things,” and that I would not eat another one. I went out of my way to buy myself a warm chicken sandwich from the bakery, even though my PB and J was waiting in my backpack. I was so content with my three-dollar sandwich that I completely forgot I had brought a lunch. Thus, throughout the day my sandwich sat at the bottom of my backpack, underneath my chemistry, calculus, and government textbooks. Can you imagine what it went through while I ran up and down the stairs to get to my classes? At the end of the day I discovered what had to be my PB and J sandwich. From the outside, the plastic bag looked like someone had thrown up in it. Inside the baggy, the soft, airy bread was smashed, with a crease from where the edge of my textbook had been. And the jelly had soaked through the middle, as well as overflowed on the sides. I actually felt sorry for it.
I have no idea why I didn’t throw it away right then. Maybe I felt guilty for not eating the sandwich my mom had taken the time to make. I know it isn’t hard to make: put peanut butter on one slice of bread and the jelly on another, then stick them together. But for some reason I ended up putting the sandwich back in my backpack, even though I had no intention of eating that pitiful, disfigured thing.
That same day I had basketball practice after school. I was not expecting the intense fitness training our coach put us through and about ten minutes from the start I needed some kind of nutrition in my body to keep me from feinting. By the end of the practice, I was starving: our coach had really worked us hard. I looked in my wallet, nothing. I had used my last three dollars on my chicken sandwich. I should’ve saved that money. As my stomach started to growl furiously, I reached into my backpack in disbelief. Was I really thinking of eating that disgusting thing?
I had no choice. I told myself that once the PB and J was in my stomach its looks wouldn’t matter.
I took the sandwich out, holding it at arm’s length and inspecting it with one eye open. I hoped that it hadn’t rotted in the heat of the gym. Surprisingly, it didn’t look as bad as I thought it had been. Of course, it was still a little smashed and the peanut butter and jelly were all over the place, but other than that, it was safe to eat. I opened up the Ziploc bag, and a stuffy whiff of warm peanuts greeted me. Then, cautiously, I opened my mouth.
I’ll never forget that moment I took the first bite into that warm sandwich and licking up the jelly that oozed out on the side. It was amazingly mouth-watering. That was perhaps, the best sandwich I’d ever eaten.
Friends and teachers have made fun of my PB and J’s, but I know they’re jealous because they don’t get to eat one of these everyday. I know what they’re thinking: their eyes give it away. I can tell they are asking themselves: “She’s a senior in high school and she still brings PB and J to school?” Despite these looks, I pull out my sandwich everyday and eat it because I remember the day a compressed mush of peanut butter and jelly saved me from starvation.
