It's the summer after third grade, and my best friend, Becky Roth, is making me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I'm concerned about a couple of things. First, she's using Skippy, which doesn't taste at all right—which is to say, it doesn't taste like Jif, the kind we use at my house. At least our families agree on the matter of creamy (insipid) vs. crunchy (a mark of character). And I'm quite sure the toaster oven should have no part in this process—right up until Becky presents me with the sandwich itself. The molten peanut butter is like hot fudge; the blackberry jam's a thick syrup. They swirl together, salty and sweet, and splurge out the sides of the toasted bread. It's glorious.