PB&J Olive Grahams

“What’s for dinner?”

“Nothing.”

“Right. Nothing. I’m not hungry. If you are, fix yourself something.”

“There’s nuthin’ to fix, Mom.”

Her cigarette hangs from the corner of her mouth; I watch the smoke curl upward as she pushes cans around the pantry shelves.

“Let’s see, kiddo. Here’s what I have: cigarettes, Tareyton, to be clear, not Marlboro – they are smoother. Some maraschino cherries. You know, the ones I pluck the stems from and put at the bottom of my chocolate layer cake.”

“Mom, I can’t eat either of those. Well, the cherries maybe, but how nutritious are those?”

“You talk like you have a degree in nutrition. Do you?”

She glares at me, and I look down, ashamed. Her hands move, pushing cans back and forth, rearranging their order on the shelves. While her hands are busy, so are her lips, pursed around her smooth Tareyton, as she sucks in the nicotine. “Mushrooms – the cheap ones that are bits and pieces. I don’t like the taste of the water they’re packed in, but we’ll drain them. Kidney beans, crushed tomatoes. Canned okra. Ewwww, why in hell did I buy that? The only good okra is fried okra. Who put okra in cans, for crissakes?”

I watch the cigarette burning down. She takes a long inhale, and the smoke blows out of her nose; then she makes a few smoke rings, chugging them out one by one, and giggles.

“I’m hungry; my stomach is banging like drums, Ma.”

“How old are you! 16 and you whine like a baby. There’s food in those cans – pick one and eat something.” More smoke circles with her glare. She throws a bag of marshmallows at me, the giant ones my dad used to stuff in his cheeks. “Marshmallows and maraschino cherries. Cherry jubilee, downhome style.” I watch as she smooshes old graham crackers - so old they aren’t crispy, and I don’t hear any crunching. She dumps the stemmed cherries and their juice into a bowl, then throws in a 16-ounce bag of big marshmallows. They turn pink as she stirs. To my horror, she pours in a can of Borden’s Sweetened Condensed Milk and stirs again. On top, she crumbles the stale graham crackers and sprinkles old, sweetened coconut flakes onto it. She doesn’t notice when cigarette ash drops into her marshmallow cherry pudding, but I do.

I chew some Juicy Fruit gum now, to ease my hunger pangs, then eat some saltines and a spoonful of crunchy peanut butter. Her hand grabs my wrist. “Do NOT put that spoon back into the peanut butter jar after you had it in your mouth!” I throw the spoon down.

I see the glint in her eye as a new idea pops into her addled brain. She grabs an unopened box of graham crackers. “Ah ha! I know what I will feed you before you get dessert.” She opens the wrapper and lays the graham crackers out on a plate. She scoops out peanut butter with a large spoon and spreads it on each cracker. Then she adds grape jelly on top. “You like grape jelly, right? Or would you prefer orange marmalade?” I shrug, so she does some of each. Mom is humming to herself, the way she does when she can’t figure something out. The humming stops as she reaches for the bag of walnuts. She crushes them in her fingers and sprinkles them atop the jelly on the grahams. Cuts green olives in half and places them over the jelly. She puts another graham on top of each, making them sandwiches. “Here’s your dinner, honey. PB&J olive grahams with walnuts. And dessert is maraschino cherry marshmallow compote.”

I almost got chili; she got distracted by the okra. But it’s all good. I’ll eat what she made.

It’s displayed beautifully, like my mom, the movie-starlet queen. She makes everything special and pretty. I reach for a tarnished silver-plated serving spoon to get some compote.

“Wait! I forgot something.” She takes her arthritis mixture of raisins and gin, spoons a bit onto the compote, and grabs a can of Reddi-Wip. “Okay, you spoon it into the china cup, and I’ll whip-cream-top it for you.” She places 4 of the sandwiches on a china salad plate and lights a candle for our romantic dinner for two.

              Copyright © 10/24/2026 by Andrea O. Corwin