We have a lot of kids. We eat a lot of food. Therefore, we shop in bulk for a lot of the foods we need. Ten pound bags of chicken. Grapes in a four pound package. Hundreds of granola bars. And, most importantly, large tubs of peanut butter.
Oh, the peanut butter. I love having vats of PB at my disposal, but I absolutely LOATHE scraping the bottom the jar once it is almost gone. Our peanut butter jars are roughly 8 inches tall, which makes it virtually impossible to get a standard knife into the bottom of the jar. I end up with more peanut butter on my knuckles and wrists than I do on the bread. It drives me INSANE.
So you can imagine my joy today when I discovered that it was a scrape-the-bottom-of-the-PB-tub kinda day. I complained about it to Matt and I saw his eyes light up with a boyish excitement.
"Want me to cut it?" he asked.
But then I put it together. Mischievous grin + Over sized PB tub = Boy's knife-wielding dream come true. Yes, he wanted to cut the jar in half.
Seeing as I was suffering from post traumatic peanut butter knuckle disorder (PTPBKD), I happily agreed. A few wild stabs and some sawing later and we went from this ...
(Sorry, I know it's just the halves put back together. I didn't think to take a picture until after the deed was done).
To this ...
I'm not quite certain, but I think I heard strains of Handel's Messiah coming from the heavens once the deed was done. There it was ... total and unrestricted peanut butter access. I was able to make sandwiches without so much as a smidgen of peanut butter on my hands. It was life changing (and yes, I know this makes me realize that I must not have much of a life).
So, so long PB hands from Hades, there's a new sheriff in town. And he's not afraid to cut you down to size to make his woman happy.