The great peanut buttering of 1982 - A story from my youth

"I'll lick your eggs," the phrase rolled off my twelve year old tongue with conviction born of desperation. I was poised to spring into action and deploy said lick to the two boiled and peeled eggs on the plate my elder brother held. A predator, muscles coiled and twitching, ready to strike.

My brother shielded his eggs from the potential tongue-lashing like a dodo bird protecting its young. Not on your fucken life his face seemed to say, lips pulled back in a snarl; crazed ugly dodo bird that he was.

I recoiled slightly from his ferocity but my hunger for eggs was insatiable and I darted in and out of his protective circle looking for a chance to strike with an egg-snatching hand or an opening in which to deploy my deadly tongue-weapon; either a satisfactory option.

All I wanted was a boiled egg; was it too much to ask? You have two.

My older brother wasn't one for sharing, even as a young kid, and as an almost fifteen year old figured why have one egg when I can have two. He boiled the eggs and that was that. None for me, the younger one. But malnutrition drove me to risky endeavours.

I bobbed and weaved, darted and dived like a spider monkey on crack for minutes, took a few knocks to the head, [probably one of the contributing factors to my knuckleheadiness these days], and a partial poke in the eye which is much like a normal poke in the eye but less painful. No luck. No eggs. I'd have to up my game, renew my efforts, dig deep.

I feigned injury.

Not that my brother would care, but I knew a little misdirection would lull the dumb dodo fucker into a sense of confidence figuring he'd finally vanquished the foe. Err no dude, don't you know the G-dog never fucken quits? Yes folks, even at that young age I didn't know how to accept defeat or how to quit; I was relentless...So a shift of tactics and...

BOOM, eggs licked! Oh the glory!

I'd darted in, easily avoiding the big assholes pathetic fist swinging at my head and grabbed them eggs and administered a quick, but thorough licking. Mission accomplished. Now, you might ask why I wanted to lick them; a good question with a simple answer. I knew he would not eat them if I did and that he'd leave them to me. Mission-success!

The only problem was I didn't expect the pummeling I'd received seconds after the egg-lick. I got pretty well thrashed to be honest, and ended up slinking away, eggless, to lick my wounds. Yep more, but different licking. In hindsight I should have grabbed those eggs and run for it...But when one is intent on deploying an egg-lick there's little else but single focus upon the mission; licking eggs is serious business.

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Later that weekend...

...I looked at my sandwich with great pride. Two slices of fresh thick-cut white bread slathered with peanut butter and strawberry jam - Not the shit we buy today, no no no, I mean the good stuff from 1982 back when they actually made it from strawberries.

I was sitting on the lounge and had just taken a bite; oh glorious peanutty jammy white bready goodness! But then my dodo brother came into the room and his somewhat dim-witted face twisted into an ugly mask of revenge. He was not pleased, and neither would I be if my face looked like that! But I digress; he was still cut by the egg-lick deployment from the day before and the fact he had to boil two more eggs.

"I'll lick your sandwich," the dense oaf stated in his boorish, uncouth voice.

I grinned like an idiot and between chewing said, "fuck off."

Ok, maybe I didn't exactly say that, but I've modernised the dialogue because I'm an adult and I swear now.

I knew trouble was brewing though and my brusque devil may care attitude, whilst seeming daringly cavalier, may have been a little flippant in reality. My Quasimodo-looking buffoon-brother shook with rage, his eyes went red and his normally slack jaw went slacker and drool began to run from the corner of his maw. A fearsome countenance if ever there was one.

The lumbering churl came at me and time slipped into slow-motion. I made an attempt to flee of course; I may not be a quitter but sometimes an advance to the rear or, retreating I guess, is the better part of valour you see. As athletic and finely-muscled as I was my god-like magnificence was no match for the nincompoop-chump who had already launched his strike.

I was just too slow, hampered indeed by one hand cradling my precious peanut butter and jam sandwich.

He fell on me like Attila the Hun did the Visigoths in Gaul; hands pummeled, knees jabbed and try as I might to batter away the dullard's attack I was soon defeated; a glorious and heroic defence was made, but all in vain. Defeat.

I wasn't to suffer a mere sandwich-licking. Oh no my fate was far more humiliating and peanutty. The hulking, beastly, hideous skamelar was not satisfied with a mere beating in retaliation for the egg-licking episode. My punishment was far worse.

The big git-brother fought to take my sandwich but couldn't break my monkey-grip upon the treat. Instead he grabbed the hand that held it, twisted it and forced the sandwich into my face...Like right fucken in there.

Peanut butter and jam on the face...Not so bad you say. Well, his palm followed through and mooshed that sandwich up my nose; I think some went into my brain.

With a disdainful maniacal laugh, he removed himself from atop my small but chiselled like a Spartan frame giving me a whack on the head for good measure. I was glad that his weight was off me but was more focused on having mooshed peanut butter and jam in my brain and solidly blocking up both nostrils; trying to breathe.

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I look back on my youth with fondness mostly but the days after the great peanut buttering of 1982 were some of my darkest. _{original im src}

I'm not sure how I managed to extricate the sandwich from my nose...Some picking I'd imagine, blowing, maybe cotton swabs on those little sticks. I recall not being able to breathe properly for a week though, and not being able to smell or taste anything but peanut butter and strawberry jam. Sounds pleasant in theory, but in practice is not so.

It was the first and last peanut buttering I received, and the last time I said, I'll lick your eggs, with conviction. However in my family the phrase lives on and occasionally someone utters the words and the story of the the great peanut buttering of 1982 gets retold, of course with the appropriate amount of embellishment.