My heart is still soft, immune to the hardening that tends to come with age, a precarious situation when I allow my heart to open, leaving it unprotected and vulnerable. Thusly exposed, I am magnificently equipped to feel the joys and empathies of a burgeoning relationship. Yet, without armor, I am susceptible to piercing wounds when that partnership pathway is unexpectedly cut short.
Consumed by a heartbreak that penetrated to my core, an unmooring that took away my breath and appetite, feeling sheepish that I was as crushed as an adolescent, I began the journey back to myself consoled not only by my people, but by those fundamental sources of happiness and meaning – skiing with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my jacket pocket.
Forty-four years old and I still take delight in the deliciously smushed fusion of savory and sweet, the syzygy of choke and slide, the spectacular yin and yang of gustatory glee. It is the same humble formula that captivated me as a child, when Pops would unpack Jif and apricot jam sandwiches from the ancient blue striped Invicta backpack that he had stashed under a tree or table.
I have never sought comfort or refuge in that which is gilded – my salvation comes not from Michelin stars and ginormous lodges and designer skiwear, but from an entirely different type of luxury. Dreams and plans temporarily dashed, I returned to the beginning, to the basic premises that have undergirded me. There is nothing more luxe than a cry and a giggle with an old friend, slushy afternoon turns, equally sticky bits of jelly hanging from my moustache.
Facial hair notwithstanding, I have retained a child’s ability to enjoy the simple pleasures of this life. Hurt by a romantic foray, I returned to the cocoon to convalesce, to recapture my spirit and fortitude, to shed the loneliness and take stock of all the good that I have to cherish – an incredible daughter, an amazing family, loyal and interesting and kind friends, a business grounded in helping others, a community rooted in adventure and compassion, my health, an unending litany of hopes and plots.
There are fancier sandwiches than the PB&J, more outlandish and/or nuanced pillars of creation, those Wagyu Reubens or towering Clubs or exotic banh mis that capture our imagination and that of food publications. These concoctions supercharge our tastebuds, make us gasp with uncontainable ecstasy, are a culinary apotheosis. Similarly, there are partners and relationships whose very spiciness and volatility are the main attraction. I admit to having been seduced by complexity and bored by predictability and the staid – both in food and in love.
Excitable, keen, wearing my heart and stomach on my sleeve, I am flooded by endorphins when I gaze at the menu or into her eyes, I am lit up by the promises of elation that are to follow. And yet, when the heartburn and indigestion and heartache and despair materialize, I am reminded of the risk of chasing those dangers, that the ascendant peaks are matched by equally deep valleys, that there are circular consequences to every decision.
Reliable, hardy, sustaining, the peanut butter and jelly sandwich is an underestimated companion. People may scoff at its simplicity, laugh at its infantile reputation, but the PB&J strides along unfazed by the dereliction. It asks for nothing but appreciation, and in return delivers the infinite. I have occasionally taken its steadfastness for granted, just as I have failed to properly value the mesmerizing support of past partners.
Resilient as always, my energy returns, my optimism only briefly flags, I envision a beautiful future. In that image, I see myself swirled together with my partner, our respective traits forming the archetypal mélange of peanut butter and jelly. My mouth waters at the prospect.