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| Hello, Love! |
This is what I ate for breakfast.
Peanut butter, well, it ought to be celebrated, don’t you
think? I, for one, am a great proponent of the occasional indulgence. Hear me,
now, occasional. There are things I have learned in this life.
“There is such a thing as too much peanut butter, dear.”
Those are the ever relevant words of my dear mother. They bear repeating. Evidenced by a receipt from the doctor listing such things as constipation and my name.
By age eight, I had already formed a severe affection (affliction?) for the creamy substance. It should be eaten, and often. Preferably with honey, between two slices. If not, a spoon would do.
Today my love of PB lives on, though tempered by the knowledge I gained in that cold, sterile place long ago.
“There is such a thing as too much peanut butter, dear.”
Those are the ever relevant words of my dear mother. They bear repeating. Evidenced by a receipt from the doctor listing such things as constipation and my name.
By age eight, I had already formed a severe affection (affliction?) for the creamy substance. It should be eaten, and often. Preferably with honey, between two slices. If not, a spoon would do.
Today my love of PB lives on, though tempered by the knowledge I gained in that cold, sterile place long ago.
It should be eaten, and often.
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