When your hair is in messy pigtails and your dad tells you that you can’t have the candy at checkout, you think it’s because he hates you. While you pout, he tells the cashier to put the deli meat back. “Not this week,” he says. The cashier nods his head and takes the ham away. “Cпасибо,” your dad mumbles. “Пожалуйста,” the cashier replies. The cashier gives you a sticker on the way out. “Pink for Maddy,” he says.
You hold your dad’s hand on the way back to his pickup. The paint is chipping and the air conditioning is broken—not the best ailments for a truck during the peak of Texas summer. His truck is a two seater, so you have no choice but to sit in the front seat.
Your dad says you’re mature for your age and can pass for ten years old. Your head is out the window, and your eyes are watching the passing cows in the pastures. They munch on the dead grass and flick their tails to ward off the flies. He asks you what you want for lunch. You say “PB&J.” He says “PML,” because the peanut butter is easier to spread with mayonnaise and the lettuce is going bad in the fridge. You think he must double hate you today.
You sit on the couch, holding your stuffed animals close and your blankie closer. Your dad is busy putting groceries away, throwing them all in the cabinets. You wait and watch cartoons—the same ones he watched. Sometimes, he watches them with you. You glance over at the kitchen counter to see the bags are gone and him standing over the cutting board. “I’m getting your sandwich now, Doodly.” You say thank you and watch him walk to the pantry. He takes his peanut butter off the shelf.
The peanut butter he makes is better than anything the grocery store has. He buys the peanuts by the pound and scoops them into little plastic bags; he keeps them wrapped up at the top of the pantry. Above the stove, he stores his peanut oil and honey. Once a week, he gathers his ingredients and adds them to the blender. The blender shakes, grinding the bits together. He blends it just enough so some peanut chunks are left. He likes it smooth, but your mom likes it chunky. He has a secret ingredient, which he jokes is boogers. You giggle and wonder what it really is.
He is insistent on the fact white bread doesn’t belong in your household. Wheat bread is the one thing that is guaranteed to stay in the grocery cart. He takes the bread bag out of the fridge. The butt of the loaf and one regular slice remains … oh well. He toasts the bread. He remembered that’s how you like the bread this time. He bobs his head to the sound of “How Soon Is Now?” by The Smiths coming from the speakers he got from his uncle. They’re rickety and old, but you can hear the sound of Morrissey’s voice bouncing from wall to wall. The toaster pops and the bread is crisp. He tells you the toaster has survived ten years of marriage, and that they don’t make them like they used to.
He grabs lettuce and mayonnaise from the fridge. The mayo is never name brand. It’s all the same stuff anyways. He puts the bread on the chopping block. He spreads the mayo on the butt, then his peanut butter. The combination smooths over the bread, rolling in a wave of brown with crests of white. He plucks a piece of lettuce off the head and smashes it into the peanut butter and mayo. The toast becomes a sandwich, and lunch is ready.
You slump off the couch to walk to the kitchen table. The head of the table is your spot. He puts the sandwich on a Barbie plate stained with sandwiches and baked potatoes past. You’ve never owned Barbies, but you own this plate. He cuts the sandwich vertically in front of you and then reveals an apple from his pocket. He cuts the apple into jagged slices. The slices fall onto your plate. He gives you six slices, and he keeps the rest for himself.
You eat your sandwich slowly. One bite in between each episode of Tom and Jerry … there’s no rush. It just tastes like sour peanut butter with a satisfying crunch. The lettuce is there for texture only. The sticky peanut butter mortars the soft lettuce to the roof of your mouth. It makes you clunk and clack your tongue as you chew. You’re full by the time you finish, but you have plenty of room for the apple–slice treats still left on your plate. You crunch on the slices. Fruit is like candy if you really think about it, so maybe you didn’t need the candy at checkout anyway.
As you age, you ask your dad where he came up with this sandwich. He tells you it was your mother’s childhood sandwich, but it was originally her mother’s. Your grandma grew up in Wisconsin with a single mother. Food on the table was a privilege when there were hungry tummies and empty pockets. So, her mother looked to creative combinations to put food on the table. On occasion, Wisconsin–sharp–cheddar cheese would find its way in front of your grandmother, sprinkled into her PML—a big splurge from her mother, a special treat for her daughter, a small piece of your family you still indulge in.
Your mother bounced from Air Force base to Air Force base as a child. Your mother tells you her parents never told her when their checkbook wasn’t balanced. But she did notice the months where all that was in her lunchbox was a PML and pretzels. You’ve watched her pack them now in her Yeti lunch box for work with a Thermos of chicken noodle soup. Your grandma brings the chicken noodle soup specifically from the local commissary just for her daughter as a treat. She likes to dip her PML in her soup, and she doesn’t like to put cheddar cheese in it.
The PML is an established member of your family. Everyone talks fondly of the PML, never disgracing its arguably funny smell or mushy components. It’s been to your tournaments, camps, and orchestra concerts. Every time, you defended it from onlookers’ vicious attacks in between bites. It sounds so wrong to others, but it tastes so right to you. Tonight, it’s what you have for dinner in your dorm. The oil seeps into the paper towel below it. Your mom shipped your dad’s peanut butter from home since you’ve had a rough week, a surprise treat for your troubles. You eat the first bite. You smile as you remember your dad telling you that you had a very hungry tummy growing up. You’re full.
