As a child I had a mission, one I failed at over and over again. I wanted to make peanut butter toast as good as Grandma. PB toast at my grandparents’ house was delicious, at home it was trash. I thought I had it the time I noticed she put a little butter on it before the PB. My disappointment was immeasurable when I found that although it helped, it was still nowhere as good. I could never get above a 4/5 to Grandma’s 10. I started to wonder, was it just the environment? Was it sitting in Grandma’s sunny kitchen before going golfing with Grandpa that made it the food of the gods?

At some point I stopped trying and it became one of those things from childhood I forgot; until my girlfriend (now wife) went grocery shopping and bought real PB. It immediately brought back memories that I hadn’t had for over a decade. I realized this was it, it was so simple, Grandma had the real shit and I only had Skippy/Jiff shit.

It still blows my mind. How the fuck did my parents’ generation, who grew up with the good stuff, accept this shitty substitute? It’s not even cheaper. I just checked the nearest grocery store and the ones that are just peanuts and salt are the cheapest.