It began sort of by accident, really: when Greg and I inherited our house, it just happened to also house three unopened jars of Skippy. They were sort of like a housewarming present. Very sticky housewarming presents.
As the humid days of summer began to dwindle away (like our pasta reserves), we took to peanut butter sandwiches — ritually and daily. You know how Haruki Murakami wrote of his days of spaghetti-obsessing in his first short story collections? Our days of spreading Skip on cold multi grain are like that; lethargic moments of concocting complexities with bread and a knife — only our plates were left with crumbs on them, rather than pasta sauce.
Did I just compare myself to Haruki Murakami? I did. Another equally important question: is this blog passive aggressively competing with Butter Days (from whom our namesake comes)? Yes it is. And we plan to kick the strawberry jam out of them.
P.S. We're really worried that Michelle is going to come beat us (me) up.