On Skippy and Jif

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.

-Jonathan

P.S. We're really worried that Michelle is going to come beat us (me) up.