Darn you, Nutella, I'm a yuppie after all

I've been a peanut butter man for some time now.

Peanut butter on toast. Peanut butter on bagels. Peanut butter on bananas. Or apples. Or pickles, if I'm feeling wild.

It's a respectable spread. Hearty. Salty (and/or sweet, depending on the type you buy). And high on both protein and unsaturated (good) fats. It's a working man's spread, yet still acceptable and enjoyable for the college-educated crowd.

But -- there's always a "but" -- I've discovered a new love. There's another jar in the cabinet, right beside the peanut butter. Sometimes sitting on top of it, even.

This chocolatey, creamy, "spreadably delicious" stuff called Nutella.

Up until two weeks ago, I had only heard talk of a hazelnut-based goop that was apparently quite popular among Euro-snobs, who thought themselves too classy for lesser, legume-based spreads.

And I dismissed it as superfluous to my edible spread needs. It sounded unappetizing, expensive, perhaps even un-American.

But on a recent spring day -- giddy with weekend recreation and forgetful of my prior conclusions, drawn years earlier -- Meaghan and I bought a jar. One harmless 13-ounce jar (371 grams). It was not terribly expensive, and we were shopping at an all-natural, organic food store, so we were feeling rather hippie-dippy already.

I figured Meaghan would try it and occasionally labor to find something to spread it on as the jar collected dust over six months in our cupboard.

I. Was. Wrong.

It was I who tore the seal off the jar's top. It was I who first spread it onto a bagel in our kitchen.

I introduced our toast to the stuff. I dipped a graham cracker stick into the jar and scooped up a blob to place on my forked tongue.

It has been I who has devoured nearly all of the one-third of a jar (4 ounces, give or take) that has already vanished.

So with this it has become clear to me: As if driving a Corolla weren't sign enough, or I couldn't discern this from the fact that I write for a website subscribed to by investment bankers, or from my taking my dogs on vacation with me ---

Plainly, despite my better judgment, I have become a yuppie.

I fear I am doomed to a lifetime of penance -- taking on home improvement projects at which I am neither skilled nor experienced -- to try to preserve some allegiance to my working class roots.

And I promise, peanut butter, I have not altogether forgotten you. Perhaps this is just a fling, and this will be the last Nutella jar with which you'll ever have to share cabinet space. Or, at worst, I will soon return you to your rightful prominence in the spread corner, sitting either in front of or on top of that squatty, white-topped container.

Either way, I will not become a Euro-snob. (But they sure are smart for driving so many small, diesel-powered cars.)