Over the weekend, I was making myself a peanut butter & jelly sandwich and realized that I was using two knives: one for the PB and one for the J. Growing up, we rarely -- if ever -- had peanut butter in the house. Some of this is the typical "we're Indian, we didn't grow up eating cheese" thing, but most of it is because my little brother has peanut allergies. Using two knives on the rare, rare occasion of having peanut butter in the house was a way to limit the contamination of the jelly. I can remember just how illicit it felt, sliding the knife into the peanut butter and it's exact heft. The texture as it was spread against the bread.
But, in my kitchen, with the light making patterns on the floor, I didn't need two knives. In two and a half years of living here, my little brother has visited me once. During which time he consumed exactly zero jelly.
I looked at the two handles sticking out from similar brightly colored jars. I'm continuing and propagating old, vestigial habits. It's not that the double knife technique is a jarring interruption (other than washing an extra knife, it's meaningless.) I'm just feeling.... Thoreau-esque: I want to live awake.