Once in a while, my kid goes through an “ants on a log” kick. In our house, “ants on a log” refers to a banana slathered with peanut butter and liberally sprinkled with chocolate chips.
I am willing to overlook the sugar in the chocolate chips in favor the protein and fat in the peanut butter and whatever nutrients a banana has; all I’m coming up with is potassium. (A deficiency in potassium, so I’ve heard all my life from potentially questionable sources, is the reason I sometimes get leg cramps. Let me tell you, I would rather wake up screaming in pain than eat a banana. My husband may feel differently, but so far he’s never smashed a banana into my shriek hole, so I think we’re okay.)
The hardest part of making my version of ants on a log is getting the peanut butter to adhere to the banana. That’s the main reason I switched from cutting the banana lengthwise down the center (which is also difficult; bananas tend to snap around their waistline) to cutting them into disks. Much easier to dollop peanut butter than to spread it, when you’re dealing with a sticky paste and a slippery fruit surface.
It’s also difficult to determine how many chocolate chips is The Right Amount. My daughter and I have wildly differing views on chocolate chip quantity. I would like to say that one chip per disk is enough; Carla would disagree. Did you know that there are approximately 2.5 million ants per human on the earth? That fact makes it sound like a couple million ants are born every time a human appears in a delivery room, but you get the idea. Anyway, my daughter would appreciate that kind of ant-to-human ratio for her ants on a log. Whether we’re talking about insects or chocolate chips, that’s way too many ants.
When I was a kid, “ants on a log” was a horrific combination of celery, peanut butter, and raisins. I do like celery, but I don’t like peanut butter and I abhor raisins, nearly as much as I abhor bananas. Also, if I stop to think about it for more than two seconds, it’s pretty gross to offer children “ants on a log” as a snack. Who wants to eat a log, whether or not it has delicious ants crawling all over it? I mean, xylophages, but as far as I know humans are not xylophagous.
Other important ants-on-a-log questions: What in nature is the peanut butter supposed to represent in this scenario? Who decided this would be a great name for a snack? Whether or not it’s appealing or depicts nature in an accurate way, it’s sure managed to insert itself into American culture.
Now I’m curious about my non-American friends, and whether ants on a log is a thing in your neck of the woods. If not, is there a similar snack food? And, if so, what is it called?
If I’m eating celery – and I do enjoy a celery snack – I’m eating it with ranch dressing or cottage cheese. NOT peanut butter. My mom likes to make “rabbit food” every afternoon around three, which is some combination of celery, carrots, broccoli, cauliflower, cucumber, and bell peppers with a little ranch on the side. I don’t know that rabbits eat celery in the wild, but I do delight in envisioning myself as a little bunny nibbling my way through a garden, rather than as a middle-aged human using sliced veggies as a conveyance for absurd quantities of ranch dressing.
While I enjoy the rabbit food, and have tried with middling success to incorporate it into my own home routine, I have fond memories of an altogether different pre-dinner snack when I was growing up. My mother would melt cubes of Velveeta together with some salsa until it was a creamy, spicy puddle, and then we’d use tortilla chips to scrape up every last molten morsel. She called this “chips and dip.” Occasionally since reaching adulthood, I have tried to recreate this snack. I have found that Velveeta is its creamy, delicious best in my memory.
Some snacks are so delicious that they transcend time. Some even appear, fully formed, in the mind of a child without her mother ever mentioning them to her. Specifically, my teenage obsession with microwaved pepperoni. There was nothing like crispy pepperoni, still sizzling in a sheen of its own fat, dipped into yellow mustard. My own child discovered this delicacy on her own – sans mustard – and only my husband’s dismay at a microwave and kitchen smelling like fried pepperoni keeps her from eating this snack on the regular.
She does, once in a while, crisp up some pepperoni and add it to her scrambled eggs. In which case, I overlook all the concerning aspects of delicious, delicious pepperoni and focus only on the high protein goodness of scrambled eggs and the joy of a child who can make herself food.
If ants are going to make a log more delicious, let’s add some ants.
