There Is No Spoon.

It is no secret that my peanut butter addiction is clinical. From a scale of crunchy Jiff to Justin’s Honey PB I am a code red blood type Omega 6. My husband’s biggest complaint is that not only does the Jar of Skippy disappear at a record pace, but that there is always a shortage of spoons in the silverware drawer. This upsets him.

Technically, it isn’t my fault. My mother ate peanut butter and pickle sandwiches (pickles are a whole other blog) when she was pregnant with me and my grandmother had indulged in a lifelong love affair with homemade PB ice cream shakes. It wasn’t a choice, I was born this way. You can’t deny my genetic desire for peanuts pulverized into a creamy delight that is 46 times* more addicting than heroin.

My story is the same every day. Like a virtual Groundhog Day-like loop where instead of Bill Murray and Andie MacDowell this story stars me and a jar of Safeway’s finest spread. I come home from work, head straight to the kitchen and grab a spoon from the drawer, head to the pantry, grab the jar, take anywhere from 1 to 3 large scoops (and yes, I double dip and NO I’m not sorry!) then dump the spoon into the sink. Cue the husband yelling from the living room “Hey are you eating MY peanut butter?” And I reply “Yes, and it’s NOT just your peanut butter”. This is then followed by my eye roll and his slow dramatic sigh. This happens nightly, and I mean Every. Single. Night. Sometimes It’s as if he doesn’t even know me.

And sometimes, later in the evening, I will hear that familiar roar from the kitchen when he discovers that all of the spoons are part of a sunken treasure buried at the bottom of a soaking casserole dish. I don’t know what is more upsetting for him, the quantity I consume or the fact that I am devoid of remorse.

Oh sure sometimes I switch to Almond butter (Justin’s maple is a little scoop of heaven in your mouth) to make the healthier choice, but It’s just not the same. My mom says it is the sugar that makes it so addicting but I say it’s magic. Sweet and salty magic that calls my name like a beacon of light made of…
well basically, peanut butter.

Hi, my name is Trish and I’m a peanut butter addict. It’s a disease for which there is no $13,000/month rehab center in Malibu…not even a support group.

*this is a lie, it’s really more like 77 times.

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