$67.50 for a Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich

I made myself a mug of steaming hot tea because I’m a wizard in the culinary arts.

I set the mug on my desk and promptly forgot about it until I took a sip and discovered the tea had cooled. Move over Aristotle. That happened because I’m a wizard at becoming distracted. The unexpected lukewarm tea caused me to fall prey to the elevens — that pair of wrinkles that form on my glabella (that smooth space between my eyebrows) when I frown or furrow my brow.

I thought about warming the brew in the microwave, but I didn’t want to anger the tea. I don’t know if that’s possible, but I didn’t want to do it.

There was a moment in the long ago when I’d craved a piping hot cup of tea. I stopped at Meier’s Lake Roadhouse, a charming spot nestled alongside the stunning Richardson Highway in Gakona, Alaska, between Delta Junction and Glennallen. I don’t think I’ve ever visited Gakona proper, but the World Population Review says it has a population of 139, so it’s hard to believe I missed it. Big cities look best from a distance, but small towns look best up close. The Richardson Highway heads south from Fairbanks and parallels the Trans-Alaska Pipeline, winding through mountain passes, over rushing rivers, and past breathtaking views of forests, lakes, glaciers, canyons and waterfalls on a 368-mile trip to Valdez, gateway to Prince William Sound. None of the canyons is the Grand Canyon, which is big, but not that big.

Meier’s Lake Roadhouse is a working roadhouse with a restaurant, bar, convenience store, motel, gas station, cabins, lodge rooms, RV park, and historic displays and photos.

Meier’s Lake Roadhouse was established in 1906. It burned in 1925, 1950 and 1961. I figured it had a history of making blistering-hot tea there.

Alaska is more than twice the size of Texas, but a brochure left by a traveler claimed Alaska had 17,681 total public roads, while Texas had 683,533. That wanderer was probably from Texas.

A hospitable server directed me to a menu where there were no specials because everything on the menu was special, but there was a sale on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for only $67.50, and I was told there were 7 1/2 rooms for rent. It didn’t take long to stay overnight in the 1/2 room. The proprietor said he hated making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and was about to raise their price because he was losing money on each one he prepared.

I was hungry enough to eat a spruce tree if I could find enough ketchup or watch a man eat pickled bullhead whiskers, but I didn’t want a PB&J. At that sale price, I’d have had to start a crowdfunding project to afford one.

I grew up eating peanut butter or jelly sandwiches made with Wonder Bread. “It helps build strong bodies 12 ways,” that bread promised me. I ate peanut butter or jelly sandwiches because I enjoyed them more than peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Peanut butter sandwiches quickly established a dominance in my life and have never relinquished that position to jelly sandwiches for even a day. I love peanut butter on toast. Jelly is good there, too. Grilled peanut butter sandwiches are divine. I’ve never tried a grilled jelly sandwich.

I do wonder how much Wonder Bread I ate during my formative years. Wonder Bread got its name when a Taggart Baking Company executive witnessed the wonder of hundreds of hot air balloons at the International Balloon Race at the Indianapolis Speedway in 1921

Wonder Bread hit a bump in the road when the U.S. government banned sliced bread in 1943 during World War II as a wartime conservation measure to save resources. The ban was intended to conserve wax paper and to halt the use of bread-slicing machines, as wax paper and steel were needed for the war effort. The ban was unpopular with consumers and was rescinded two months later.

The hot tea I enjoyed at Meier’s Roadhouse wasn’t on sale, but it was sizzling.

I didn’t spill a drop.

I didn’t want to take the chance of the Roadhouse burning down again.