Mom had an appointment, so I was to have lunch at our neighbors’ house. Their son and I were both 7 and inseparable, so we met by the teeter totters at noon recess and raced to his house.
The bill of fare featured PB&J. However, before we made our sandwiches, Mrs. G. solemnly approached bearing a half-empty jar of Skippy. She explained that the meticulous Mr. G. had recently had a conniption over the deplorable condition of the peanut butter jar.
She ceremoniously opened the jar to reveal his new expectations. Oh, no. The sides and rim of the jar contained not one smidgen of Skippy. What remained was perfectly level and contained no jelly smears, toast crumbs or butter blobs.
Jeepers. Nobody’s Skippy jar looked like that.
Upon noticing our bleak, bewildered little faces, Mrs. G. fervently proclaimed: “From not on, Vern wants NEAT PEANUT BUTTER!” She then burst out laughing.
Since levity was in the air, we cheerfully tried to comply.
For the next few weeks, the mention of “neat peanut butter” evoked instant mirth on our street.
