The Captain to my Crunch

Have you ever had something you loved taken from you? Not someone, just something that made your life a little brighter. Some little thing that brought a sense of peace and happiness. Something that somehow assured you that as long as you had it, all was right in the world.

Then, it just isn’t there.

Maybe it was a well-worn stuffed animal or security blanket that covered you on cold winter days, warm summer nights, and everywhere else you went. Maybe it was a song that you listened to as a child or a show that your family watched every year.

Maybe it was a favorite food that you suddenly discover you’re allergic to. And it burns deep in the cockles of your heart. (Not that I’m entirely sure what a “cockle” is, but I assure you, dear reader, if my heart has a cockle, it is dying.)

I, life-long lover of peanut butter, Reese’s cups, Thai peanut salad, peanut butter fudge, boiled peanuts, peanut butter cookies, PB&J sandwiches, peanut butter bars, buckeyes, and any other form the peanut can undertake, am allergic to peanuts.

It was a devastating blow. Yin and Yang have split. That day, I lost the Captain to my Crunch. I face a lifetime of jelly sandwiches – a sweet, sticky fruit spread between two slices of bread, lacking the nutty, savory substance that peanut butter adds to create the dynamic duo.

Grief-stricken and fuming, I told my sister of my peanut-less fate.

Her mouth dropped open in shock.

“Are you allergic to peanuts or peanut butter?”

“Well…peanut butter is made of peanuts.”

“But if you’re allergic to peanut butter, maybe it’s the butter.”

A nice thought, but I doubt that will prove to be the case. And “nuttin’” can make it right.