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elfsYesterday we all trekked out to the grocery store for the weekly shopping, and in one of the aisles a woman was cutting up Smucker's Uncrustables with a pair of scissors and offering samples to passersby. These Uncrustables are plastic-bagged peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, molded into round flying saucers of spongy, soft white bread with their edges pinched shut: no mess, no fuss, the perfect 1950s food in so many ways. How sad for Smuckers that it's 2006.
Kouryou-chan is a peanut butter & jelly fiend, one of those six-year-olds who seems to live solely on the stuff. She's also a menace to grocery store sample stands, and begged me if she could try one. I said she could go ahead.
She took one bite and the expression on her face reflected immediate and palpable disgust. She took the half-bitten sandwich out of her mouth and stared at it: peanut butter & jelly had betrayed her. "Don't like it?" I asked. She shook her head, then started to look about. Her eyes settled on the trash can behind the sampling station, and she quickly disposed of the offending manufactured food item. "I guess we're not buying those, huh?" I said.
"Nope. Blechh!"
Kouryou-chan is a peanut butter & jelly fiend, one of those six-year-olds who seems to live solely on the stuff. She's also a menace to grocery store sample stands, and begged me if she could try one. I said she could go ahead.
She took one bite and the expression on her face reflected immediate and palpable disgust. She took the half-bitten sandwich out of her mouth and stared at it: peanut butter & jelly had betrayed her. "Don't like it?" I asked. She shook her head, then started to look about. Her eyes settled on the trash can behind the sampling station, and she quickly disposed of the offending manufactured food item. "I guess we're not buying those, huh?" I said.
"Nope. Blechh!"
