The Green & Brown Wave
I recall reading a George F. Will column years ago featuring the baseball-obsessed conservative pundit divulging his love of a sandwich whose ingredients didn’t compute in my teenage brain: peanut butter and pickles (PBP). Despite only eating a few of them in the intervening two decades, a recent reinvestigation by my now-liberated taste buds has unveiled a sociological goldmine concerning what is a suitable third wheel when peanut butter and bread are in the mix. It’s a near-universal truth that anyone who dislikes dry-roasted peanut spread may be worthy of a 5150—my mother finally came to her senses in recent times although her mother remains one of the few people I’ve ever known who’s repulsed by the jarful of joy, a flaw strong enough to ruin her legacy—but most who love the legume have oddly self-imposed limits about how liberal they are with it.
My longtime pal, Sam, recently got hired at the same company where I began working in June. She arrived with a large folding chair on her first day of training—I’ll forgo heavy criticism of the chair’s dirt-covered feet sullying the off-white carpeting in my bedroom-slash-office (didn’t say I’d never forget)—and offered to treat to lunch as a thank you for getting her hired. Requesting a dill pickle to accompany my rosemary ham sandwich, Sam got one too but forgot it in my fridge. As the week progressed, I made a salad for her one day and served linguine and mushrooms in clam sauce the following afternoon, unaware that portabellas wreak havoc on her colon. To conclude a mostly successful gastronomical (and work) week, I offered to turn her still uneaten pickle into a PBP sandwich, which she grimaced at but said she wouldn’t criticize until trying it.
“It’s not…bad,” Sam said after her first bite.
“Dude, the creaminess mixed with the acidity is great,” I replied.
“The crunchy peanut butter helps. I dunno if I’d eat this again though.”
“Bet you’d love it if you were high as shit right now.”
“Truth.”
As is my habit, I took a photo of the sandwich and posted it on Instagram, writing a limerick about my renewed PBP love. Upon sharing the photo in a group chat with my co-workers, Big Scone and Crusher, it led to a discussion of pineapple on pizza (“Pepperoni + pineapple is the true alpha male pizza,” Crusher inexplicably offered) and “dank-ass snacks” such as brie cheese paired with fig jam. Things escalated in a separate group chat with our Filipina co-workers.
“Lunch break,” Karla wrote followed by an ice cream cone emoji.
“Oh damn, ice cream for real?” Crusher replied. “Lucky.”
“What flavor?” I asked.
“Haha, yeah,” she said. “Cookies and cream.”
Work resumed and the topic seemed to lose its luster until a couple hours later when I chimed in with an “upvote for black raspberry and pistachio.”
“[I’m] good with any flavor as long as it’s not mint chocolate chip,” Rae added.
“It tastes like a toothpaste,” Margotte chimed in.
“I… don’t hate… mint chocolate chip,” Crusher added with a teardrop emoji.
When I submitted my inevitable top five list, the final slot was reserved for “not mint chocolate chip.”
“You guys need to hear some of Adam’s other favorite dishes,” Crusher offered to stoke the flavor fire, but the embers dissipated soon thereafter.
When Crusher had to join a conference call the following afternoon, he proposed anyone who had it on hand grab ice cream for lunch. Karla uncannily suggested pineapple pizza instead, many chimed in with favorite pizza toppings (creamed spinach piqued my interest), and then I advocated for an ice cream cone stuffed with bacon, spinach, and mozzarella.
“Lunch break,” Karla said.
“Digging into an ice cream sandwich?” I replied.
“No ice cream today because it’s raining,” Karla said.
“The temperature outside should never affect your enjoyment of one of life’s greatest gifts: ice cream,” I said. “I’m here to help in Crusher’s absence even though he didn’t ask me. What a jerk, huh?”
“I’mma take a screenshot in case you delete this message,” Rae threatened.
“No chance I’m deleting it! He knows what he did. Since he didn’t leave me instructions, now seems like a fine time to discuss our favorite flavor of pie.”
Answers included egg pie, buko (coconut) pie, and “mango pie from Jollibee.”
“Stop working and tell us your favorite pie, Irene,” I added about the lone holdout-slash-workhorse.
“Any pie will do,” Rae added. “We don’t judge here except if you like mint chocolate chip ice cream.”
As we discussed the choice offerings at Jollibee, Karla included one of the funniest reviews in recent memory: “Why is Jollibee chicken so good? The hand-breaded fried chicken is praised for being crisp and juicy; it’s made with a secret marinade and served with a side of gravy that’s been called ‘ethereal.’”
“Sadly, there’s no Jollibee in Connecticut,” Rae added while twisting the knife.
“I would love to try their celestial honey mustard and gossamer iced tea. This is what happens when I take over the chat (and proof Crusher is smart for not asking for my help).”
He then resurfaced to say how the mint chocolate chip dig hurt, Rae asked for JUST ONE reason it’s enjoyable, and I equated it to ashing a Kool cigarette on your ice cream to replicate the flavor.
“Ignore him, ladies and gentlemen,” I added. “Just a paranoid, delusional man trying to make order out of his own chaos. ‘I want chocolate, but I also want to go to the dentist.’ ‘I love chocolate, but I like it with a nice cough drop.’ ‘Chocolate makes me happy but only if it feels like I have the flu.’”
“How did I become the mint chocolate chip spokesperson?” Crusher asked. “All I said was, ‘I don’t hate it.’ Now I’m being crucified. Time to put you in the hot seat, Adam. Exhibit A.”
He posted my PBP sandwich photo before adding, “Would you care to explain this?”
“Whaaaaaaaatttt?” Karla asked about the delectable spread.
Then Crusher included another screenshot of me endorsing a banana, nutmeg, and mayonnaise sandwich, telling our dozen Filipino friends that I’m a confirmed psychopath: “You can’t trust a word out of this guy’s mouth.”
“This sounds like the cravings of a pregnant woman,” Karla said.
“I’m full of estrogen, everyone,” I said.
“He did make me a PBP sandwich that I didn’t hate,” Sam finally included to help me save face to our horrified assistants.
As I introduced Sam to those now suffering from nausea, she offered the underwhelming endorsement that it “wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever tried.” Like rubbing a few tablespoons of peanut butter on top of the dirt she left on my carpet.
“Hello Samantha,” Crusher added. “Blink twice if Adam is forcing you to say these things against your will. All I’m saying is: It’s fine if you wanna eat bananas and mayonnaise together, but if you do, you should be put on an FBI watchlist and closely monitored, that’s all.”
“So they can watch me eat delicious sandwiches?” I asked.
“How can you eat this, AHF?” Rae asked. “This is just not acceptable.”
“I thought we were pals,” I replied. “Our anti-mint alliance. And then you threw it all away over the PBP?!”
“We are,” she pleaded, “but PBP TOGETHER? I mean, I can eat it separately but not together.”
“You gotta try it. Make a TikTok video.”
“I’ll give it a chance once I have the guts to try it.”
“Prove me wrong, pal. Hold your nose and dig in. Go on a creamy cruise to Acid Avenue. Alright, I’ve got things to do. While the FBI watches me.”
“Holding your nose while swallowing makes you lose your taste buds for a short time.”
“If that’s what it takes for us to be friends again…”
“Alright, might give it a go.”
“Atta girl. Everyone in the chat should have one for lunch tomorrow. First one to finish his/her sandwich meets me at the nearest Jollibee for a mango milkshake.”
“I don’t think that’s fair. We make it and we fly????”
Crusher then submitted a Bitmoji of a bald, bespectacled man with a gigantic pregnant stomach, prompting me to counter with a peanut butter and pickle pancake recipe.
“WHAT IS THAT???” Rae asked.
“A crime against God,” Crusher replied.
“All the NOPE,” Sam added.
“He can’t keep getting away with this!” Crusher said via the Breaking Bad GIF (pronounced like the peanut butter, natch) he included featuring a screaming Jesse Pinkman.
“I’ve had it with the close-mindedness of this chat,” I said. “Everyone go eat your mint pizzas and Newport 100 ice cream, okay?”
“You can’t keep torturing yourself like this,” Rae told me. “Can I just eat pickles on their own?”
“Or PB and just PB alone?” Karla asked.
“At least one of you who tries will begrudgingly say it wasn’t bad,” I added. “The problem is getting one of you to actually try it.”
“Haha, okay, I’ll take the challenge,” Karla said.
“Would love it if at least two people tried it, so we got the feedback of multiple wowed PBP lovers.”
“Don’t give in!” Rae implored. “DON’T!”
I posted a photo of a Dill Pickle Mints tin with the caption “The Great Compromise.”
“You are an animal,” Crusher said.
Sam joked about bringing me chocolate-covered salmon for dinner, so I mentioned how the third trimester was taking its toll. Crusher joined in by posting a meme that read “Insecurity: I will always be a part of you; Anxiety: I wonder what could go wrong; Adam Harrison-Friday: Have you eaten your peanut butter and pickle sandwich today?” Sometimes you gotta applaud an enemy when he’s equally unrelenting.
“I’m free Sunday if you wanna come over for some clam chowder ice pops,” Sam said.
“If AHF is willing to try this, Margotte will try the PBP combo,” Rae said while including a recipe for ensaladang pipino, a cucumber (or pickle), pepper, and onion salad with salt, black pepper, fish sauce, sesame oil, vinegar, and sugar.
“I’d try that in a second,” I responded. “I will make one and post proof on Monday. Someone better get Margotte bread, pickles, and PB cuz this is happening, friendz. Sounds delicious. This isn’t even a challenge.”
“Make sure you pair it with ranch-flavored soda,” Sam urged.
Tonight, I will eat a salad consisting of seedless cucumber slices, a few Dill pickle chips, scallions, and raw red pepper, plus the necessary accoutrement while thinking about George Will’s retroactively brilliant sandwich recommendation. In a week that saw him surely disappointed by the inaccurately forecasted “red wave” of Republican political victories, he can take solace in knowing the green and brown wave will be shredded for as long as tongues exist. Hell, it’s going to be more than a wave. In the Philippines they’ll consider this sublime sandwich the one tsunami they were ever happy to see hit the islands. Walang anuman.