It's raining, and I have a cold. But, as it turns out, I also have peanut butter. I think of Brad Pitt whenever I eat peanut butter, just the way he says it in "Meet Joe Black, " with all the emphasis on the butter. This of course proves that he indeed is Death come a 'callin in that movie, as I didn't really need another reason to find him irresistible then to pair him with my favorite high-fat food.
After exhausting my memory bank of bare-Brad moments from the greatest films of all time, I also think of my father when I eat peanut butter. Dad used to slather it on to what we called hard rolls, meaning fluffy white nutrition-free bread with a crusty exterior, usually with a few poppy seeds clinging on for dear life. As if the hydrogenated/sugar/substance with some peanuts wasn't enough creamy mouth feel, Dad would slather on butter. And he would eat a couple of these--three if the Yankees were losing.
Today would have been my Dad's birthday, had he lived through such habits, which he did not--leaving us ten years ago to find our own way to the store and answers to arcane movie trivia. I think he would be horrified at the organic soy peanut spread that skims my toasted whole-grain pita. And that's okay. I have a lot to live for. Two "a lots," as a matter of fact: my son and my daughter. And today I'm feeling the gratitude for these marvelous adults that are both friends and my off-spring. They survived me, somehow--I suspect by turning a blind eye to my lefts, and following my rights, and then mixing in themselves: a brilliant alchemy that created people I not only am delighted to mother, but would flagrantly beg to be my friend.
When I look back to when they were kids, I never daydreamed about how they would turn out. Most of the time I was simply holding on, trying to do no harm. And I'm glad, because maybe I would have been some bent tiger mother, tying them to a piano bench because it made me feel successful. I like to think not, but you never know. I wore aqua lycra pants. That should call anyone's judgment into question.
So, Dad, happy birthday, from me and the grand-kids. You would like how they turned out, I am sure. They both love me, and peanut butter.
