For eighty years, I thought I had mastered the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It was my old reliable. Crunchy peanut butter, apricot or peach jam if I could get it, always on toasted bread. The smell of the bread warming, the nutty peanut butter melting ever so slightly, the sweet jam soaking into the edges—it never failed to lift me up. There’s even something satisfying about the stickiness, the way the peanut butter clings to the roof of your mouth, demanding your full attention.

A PB&J makes me feel good—steady, comforted, and complete. It’s not fancy, but it doesn’t need to be. Honestly, I thought PB&J and I had no more secrets between us. We’d been through it all together—late-night snacks, quick road-trip meals, afternoons when only a PB&J could fix things. If there were a PhD in sandwiches, I was ready to teach the course.

And then, out of nowhere, came the revelation.

A Sandwich Epiphany

My friend Alexis placed a plate in front of me. It looked like a normal PB&J. I took a bite, and suddenly my world tilted on its axis.

This wasn’t a PB&J. This was a grilled PB&J.

The bread was golden, buttery, crisped to perfection. Inside, the peanut butter had turned into molten velvet, while the jam oozed with sweet, tangy ecstasy. It was messy. It was gooey. It was divine.

I froze mid-bite. I may have heard angels singing. Neil Armstrong’s voice echoed in my head: “One small step for man, one giant leap for peanut butter and jelly.”

I had discovered fire. Or maybe penicillin. Except better, because I could eat it.

“So here I am, eighty years in, and PB&J just blew my mind.”

The Power of a Staple

PB&J has always been more than food for me—it’s connection. My longest childhood friend, Phil, has a nightly ritual: he eats a PB&J just before bed. And whenever the two of us are together—even after we’ve had a full dinner—we keep the ritual. Before turning in, we each make ourselves a PB&J. It’s a tradition that has lasted decades, a shared moment that somehow grounds us, no matter how much time has passed.

It’s also woven into the fabric of American life. The school lunchbox. The cafeteria tray. The emergency meal kit. Even now, though some schools have gone nut-free, PB&J hangs on—sometimes in the form of Uncrustables, those sealed pre-made sandwiches that still deliver the magic.

And it’s not just nostalgia. With whole-grain bread, natural peanut butter, and lower-sugar jam, PB&J is surprisingly balanced: protein, healthy fat, fiber, fruit. Even the CDC might quietly approve. Not bad for a century-old staple.

The Larger Lesson

That grilled PB&J taught me something profound. Life’s staples—the things we think we know by heart—still have the power to surprise us. Just when we believe we’ve seen it all, there’s another layer, another twist, another joy waiting.

PB&J is a sandwich, yes. But it’s also a reminder that discovery doesn’t stop at a certain age. That comfort doesn’t have to mean complacency. That the familiar can still astonish you, if you let it.

So here I am, eighty years in, and PB&J just blew my mind. If a sandwich can still do that, what else is out there waiting?

LISTEN TO THE PODCAST