All-American Summer

Remember when you were a kid and the summer seemed endless…in a good way?  I sort of have that feeling right now.  Maybe it’s the extreme heat or the impending 4th of July weekend, but I kind of feel like I’m on vacation.  It could also be the fact that I’ve only been consuming liquids for the past five days on my dietary cleanse and am possibly losing touch with reality, but I tend to lean toward the former observations.

When I think back to some of my best summer memories they revolve around a bicycle.  I used to have to stay with a babysitter when I was a kid…even up through being 11 or 12 years old if I’m remembering correctly.  I would get up every morning with my mother and she would drop me off on the way to work.  Now, I never really liked going to the baby-sitter that much.  I always thought I was too mature for that sort of thing (as I’m sure every kid does), but during the summer when all the kids were there and Wenonah (that was the babysitter’s name) and her husband Herb would prepare the above ground pool, the days became heaven.  There is nothing better than getting into a pool with a bunch of other kids and playing like there is no tomorrow.  We would all move ourselves to the outer rim of the pool and try to run (in the 4 ft deep water mind you) in the same direction around and around until we got a good strong whirlpool going.  Then it was time to float around and be drug to the center of the vortex all the while pretending to fight for our lives.  Those were good days.

The other really fun days were when we took our bicycles out and rode all over town and beyond.  I must have been at least 11 or 12 years old, otherwise I can’t imagine they would just let us leave and ride off to who knows where, but it was a small town and there never was any danger (at least that we were aware of).  We would play a game of chase all over the small town streets, but when we got really brave we would ride out of town and down Terrel Creek Rd.  This always seemed really adventurous and somehow naughty. 

Like I said, it was a small town and therefore didn’t take very long to pass its borders.  Leaving town on a bike could be accomplished within a matter of minutes, and it was exhilarating.  Terrel Creek Rd. would take us out into the hilly countryside along a roughly paved road.  The fields all along the sides of the road were full of weeds and wildflowers along with raspberry, blackberry, gooseberry and even the occasional blueberry bushes.  Tall, dry grasses wilted over from the hot sun would scratch our arms and faces as we whirred past an endless expanse of barbed wire and cattle.

Eventually we came to a more woodsy area a few miles outside of town.  The houses were sparse, but well manicured and mostly private farms.  A group of kids riding by would get a wave from someone on a tractor or sitting on the porch instead of a suspicious glance I imagine they might get nowadays.  We would ride beyond a stone bridge and park our bikes in the weeds.  From this vantage point we could glimpse water through the tangled vines and poison ivy guarding the way down to Terrel Creek.

Hiding beneath the underbrush was the creek: cold and refreshing after such a sweaty ride, full of crawdads and smooth stones ripe for skipping.  And what did we do when we got there?  Throw rocks at each other.  If memory serves rocks seem to hurt less when you are a kid.  These were the war games of summer after all.

Those were glorious and exhausting days, and when we returned from our unsupervised excursions, Wenonah would have lunch waiting.  Sometimes it was Spaghetti-O’s and sometimes it was vegetable soup, but more often than not it was bologna and cheese or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  We would happily scarf down our food in an effort to get back out onto our bikes or into the pool or involved in some other sort of game we felt like playing. 

As an adult I can certainly appreciate that burst of summer energy.  I find some days I have it, and some days I don’t, but when I’m on, I’m on.  I suppose I don’t throw too many rocks anymore, other than the ones I've found in the garden and tossed into a pail to get them out of the way.  Or maybe I use the rocks as a natural border in the garden, but people coming over for an afternoon visit don’t have to worry too much about me screaming and throwing rocks at them in a feverish state. 

I’ve traded the pool in for a birdbath and the bicycle for a lawnmower, but the items I refuse to give up are peanut butter and jelly.  I don’t care how old you are, if you can’t find comfort in two pieces of white bread smothered in creamy (or crunchy) golden peanut butter with the jam or jelly of your choice, then I can’t help you.  But if you are someone who still takes a deep, carnal pleasure in a spoonful of Jiff, then I’m your man.

What I decided to do this week has been percolating in my head for a while, ever since I made the carrot bread from Jim Lahey’s My Bread.  A few pages beyond the carrot bread recipe is one for Peanut Butter and Jelly Bread.  Eureka!!!  Since the first time I saw it’s picture I was in love; a deep mahogany loaf stippled with roasted peanuts and containing a secret jelly filling inside.  I couldn’t help myself any longer, this bread had to be made!!!

The recipe is similar to his others by using the no-knead method Jim is famous for.  It’s just a matter of patience.  You start out by making a peanut butter flavored dough, let it rise for 12 hours in a warmish place (no kneading required) and then you pat the dough out into a rectangle.  Spread your jelly onto the dough like a sandwich; roll it up (tucking the sides in to prevent the jelly’s escape), top with roasted peanuts and bake for an hour and fifteen minutes.

The house smells amazing!!!  Even though it’s 10,000 degrees outside and the kitchen gets quite warm with the oven on during the summer I encourage you whole heartedly to make this bread.  I served it as a dessert along with chocolate peanut butter ice cream to much success, but I think it would also be great for a breakfast or brunch.  It really does smell like peanut butter all through the house, and if that’s a comfort food trigger for you you’ll have a hard time waiting for it to finish baking.

I’ve said before that summer smells like grass, but summer can also smell like peanut butter…at least it certainly can for me.  This bread makes me want to get outside and get moving, knowing that after a long journey and a few scratches later I have something delicious waiting for me cooling on the stove.  Now I just need to figure out where I put my bicycle.  It’s just who I am.