Joan Didion makes a peanut butter sandwich

A ray of hunger rankled my stomach. Hunger evokes an imperative of inner unrest sobering my mind. I open the door to cabinet in my apartment kitchenette. The door squeaks. Like my stomach. And I begin to scan for what some might term a solution, or a quick fix, or whatever pastile might answer my ailment. I read that food is medicine. I read that the first thing a sick person wants is a bowl of soup. When I was interviewing people in California about their childhoods, without fail, each one associated their past with food.

I think to myself that a lesser god in a lower celestial invented peanut butter. I plough my plate knife through lead clouds.

Wonder.Bread. Together, the words form less than the parts. Alpha and Omega, God and Mammon, Wonder and Bread. I read that children cannot recognize the taste of peanuts without the cue of the white spongy milled grain accompanying it across their palate for some many years. The bread absorbs the oils. Once cut, the bread seals at the edge.

These peanuts come from Georgia. The bread comes from mills in Minnesota. Did Carter and Mondale personify a sandwich?


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