The 'J' in PBJ

When I was a girl, I knew two truths about Americans. They called jelly ‘jello’, and they called jam ‘jelly’. I thought they were a crazy mixed-up nation, based largely on those two facts. I mean, how could anyone live somewhere where it was all so confusing?

Now I am a mature lady, and I’ve lived in America for more than five years, and I know many many truths about Americans. I still think they are a crazy mixed-up nation, but that’s because I think every nation is a crazy mixed-up nation. I still find life here somewhat confusing, but that’s because life is inherently confusing. I have at least managed to sort out the whole jelly/jam conundrum.

Jelly is indeed called ‘jello’ in America. It’s a brand name, so I should probably afford it the dignity of an initial capital: ‘Jello’. It has happier rhyming scope than jelly. Jelly rhymes with smelly and telly and welly and belly (which used to be a deliciously not-quite-rude-but-still-a-bit-naughty word when I was little, but is probably more mundane now). None of those are very inspiring. Not on your Nellie. Jello rhymes with hello and ‘cello (gotta love that initial apostrophe – how many words have an initial apostrophe?) and bellow and fellow and mellow. All rather pleasing, friendly words. “Hello, my good fellow” I bellowed, “How mellow is the music from your ‘cello!” Jello wins hands down in the rhyming stakes.

So far so easy. Any old Brit could manage the jelly/Jello linguistic transition (and see how generously I continue to award the American word a capital, whilst sticking with the lowly lower case for the British word). Now on to the complexities of jam. Incidentally, can you believe they don’t have jammie dodgers in America, they don’t call a police car a jam sandwich, and I don’t think they use the word ‘jammy ‘ to mean uncommonly lucky or flukey (though I could be wrong about that last one).

Living amongst Americans has shown me that my previous understanding (ie that they call jam ‘jelly’) is wrong. There are two different substances to which they give two different names. Jelly is clear, and doesn’t have bits in it. Jam is not clear, and does have bits in it. And guess what? It’s actually exactly the same in British English. Think of the redcurrant jelly you have with your roast chicken. You’d never call that ‘jam’, would you? And what you do call jam, Americans also call jam.

The difference emerges from the usage of the substance. You wouldn’t spread redcurrant jelly on your children’s toast, or make their sandwiches with it. Over here they do. They have grape jelly, apple jelly, strawberry jelly, for that very purpose. None of it tastes very nice, but it’s almost impossible to resist buying it, because the leading brand is called Smuckers. Doesn’t that beat Robinson’s or Bonne Maman into a cocked hat? I always want to call it Smuckers Schmuckers. In fact, I often do – just not out loud.

I like to think that living on a different continent to the one I was brought up in broadens my horizons and gives me greater understanding of my fellow people, and I bring you the jelly/jam issue as evidence of that. See how prejudiced I used to be. “Americans call jam, ‘jelly’.” How simplistic, narrow-minded and critical I was in my youth! My five years here have taught me that I was wrong. What I used to see as an insurmountable difference between the two nations, I now realize was my own error of comprehension. In fact, we are marked out by our similarity. We are two peoples at one in our use of the words ‘jam’ and ‘jelly’. We co-incide. There is unity between us. Our linguistic commonality is seamless. I would quite possibly never have discovered that, had I not moved across the Atlantic. Thus another link is forged in the chain of international understanding. See how I am contributing to world peace, simply by blogging about jelly and jam.

PBJ

"I'll have a PBJ."

That's something of a litmus test. If you know what it means, I expect you've been to America with a child. If you don't know what it means, you're probably guessing, and if you come up with something really creative and witty, you should leave it in a comment and make me laugh. The best I can think of is that it would be what you might write on the bottom of an invitation to a sleepover: Please Bring Jamas.

A PBJ is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It's a BLT, without the bacon, lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise, with added peanut butter and jelly. It's a standard offer on a children's menu. If your child doesn't want mac and cheese, a hot dog, a burger, a corn dog (corn dog? that's a post for another time), pizza or grilled cheese, then chances are, there'll be a PBJ on there too. Even if there isn't, you could probably ask for one and most eating establishments could rustle one up for your kid. That's because - unlike my house - they will probably have a jar of peanut butter in a cupboard.

My children don't like peanut butter. They didn't test them for that during the immigration medicals which is just as well. I'm pretty sure they don't give green cards to people who don't like peanut butter. They would probably have injected them with the stuff, along with all the hepatitis and chicken pox inoculations they needed. Intravenous peanut butter. I'm sure that would be in the paediatrician's arsenal.

Michelle sums it up well in her post at The American Resident. To most American families, peanut butter is as staple as ordinary butter. Ooh, I've just worked something out. This must be why Americans pronounce Rs in words more than we do (think "burrrgerrr" or "Central Parrrk" or indeed any parrrk, doesn't have to be Central, that was just the one that came to mind). It's because their tongues are permanently stuck to the roofs of their mouths by all the peanut butter they ate as children (they also say "ruf", as in "woof", not "rooooof" as in "Rufus", but that probably isn't to do with the peanut butter). The word "cloying" was invented for the sensation of eating peanut butter.

I can't quite decide if I like peanut butter or not. I like the crunchy kind, on toast, but not too often. I don't like the smooth kind. I don't like the flavour of peanut butter combined with sweet things, so I don't like peanut butter cookies (did you just hear 350 million people gasp?) and I really, really don't like it combined with chocolate (possibly a federal offence to say that in print). Reese's peanut butter cups are horrible. They are a dreadful waste of perfectly good chocolate. Well, not perfectly good as in Cadbury's, but perfectly adequate. Or adequate. I would pay not to eat a Reese's peanut butter cup. I reckon I'm not the only one, because come Hallowe'en, you'll find your trick or treat bag full of them. I suppose it might be because they're in orange packaging, which makes them readily Hallowe'enable (and no, I can't bring myself to drop the apostrophe in Hallowe'en, I'm sorry), but I strongly suspect that many people look on Hallowe'en as a good opportunity to get rid of the packets of Reese's peanut butter cups that have somehow infiltrated their kitchen cupboards.

Peanut butter cups are beginning to remind me of the Two Ronnies. They did a brilliant spoof (rhymes with "roof" so don't go reading it to yourself as "spuf" will you?) on Gilbert and Sullivan. The song "Dear Little Buttercup" contained the lines "Dear Little Buttercup, Please lift your buttock up, For you are sitting on my top hat". Sorry to those of you who are fans of Reese's peanut buttock ups. I've probably ruined them for you forever now.

You may think I've whittered my fill on the subject of PBJ but you'd be wrong. There's going to be a second instalment. Oh yes. So if you're poised to comment about the J bit of PBJ and reflect on the jelly/jam differential, please don't, because that's my jumping off point. Instead, try and come up with a clever idea of what alternative PBJ could stand for.