When I was a teenager, I’d stayed over at one of my buddy’s house for the first time. He was the new kid in town, and we’d become fast friends. I don’t remember what all we did that night. Probably played some N64 video games and jammed to whatever the latest “gangsta rap” CD was out—keep in mind that we were two country boys from rural Alabama, so this would’ve been a sight to see.

As I was making fresh granola this morning, a moment from that night flashed in mind, just as clear as it was the back then. In my own kitchen, I was stirring a fresh jar of peanut butter, preparing to put about a cup of it into my granola.

If you’ve never had the real stuff, you probably don’t know that the oil separates from the peanut solids. That means you must stir it well to have a smooth, creamy consistency. It’s a perfectly natural process.

Anyway, back to the night with my friend. I don’t remember that we had a proper supper or anything of the sort. His single mom was probably working, and the kids were left to fend for themselves (I know that idea is shocking to modern-day helicopter parents, but I also very much grew up in a similar situation at times and turned out just fine).

My buddy asked what I’d like to eat. I told him I’d be just fine with a good ol’ peanut butter sandwich.

He’d embarrassingly headed over to the pantry after trying to convince me to try a few other snacks. I wasn’t sure why at the time, until he pulled out a gallon-sized tin of peanut butter. It looked like the sort of thing you’d get from a 1950s-esque nuclear-preparedness cache or something of the sort.

Most kids our age were accustomed to the popular brands in the 90s like Jif, Peter Pan, and Skippy. He knew that. I knew that.

I don’t remember the brand on his tin of peanut butter. But it contained just two ingredients: peanuts and salt. I mostly recall it being a giant metal container and not the small plastic jars I was accustomed to seeing.

He slowly popped the plastic lid off the tin. As he was doing so, he began apologizing and explaining that we’d have to stir it before eating. He knew it was weird. But told me it was OK to eat once it all got mixed together.

I didn’t much care. It was an unusual thing for me, but I’ve never been a picky eater and was always up for trying something new. Besides, my stomach was telling me it was time to consume something. So, I was like, “Let’s do it!”

And I ate a tasty peanut butter sandwich, perhaps for the first time.

A big part of me wants to go back and tell that embarrassed kid that it’s OK to be the weird one in America when it comes to food. Normal is sick.

I’d want that kid to know that his mom, despite being financially strapped at the time, had chosen to feed him and his siblings real peanut butter. Real food. The products that we all ate as kids were nothing more than “peanut butter spread,” filled with added sugars and hydrogenated vegetable oils. Not the real thing.

Also, can someone explain to me why peanuts, which have natural oils of their own, would need hydrogenated vegetable oil added when making peanut butter?

I wish I could travel back in time to let that kid know that there wasn’t anything to be embarrassed about.

And I sure hope that he’s continued eating the real thing over the years.

I know that it’s a mainstay in my diet. As I write this,the taste of my granola cereal still lingers. Subtle hints of vanilla, cinnamon, and peanut butter dance along my taste buds. The thing I enjoy most of all is biting into a cluster of oats that have formed a pocket around a ball of peanut butter. 🤌