For a friend who twittered

Forgiving the oddness of presenting a recipe linked to rock-n-rolls one and only king, let’s just eat and be merry, ok?

Take two slices of wonder bread, the kind the king’s mama used when he was growing up, and apply a generous slathering of creamy peanut butter to one side of one slice. A full banana should then be peeled, taking care to remove the strings and any seedlings from the ends. The naked ‘nanner should then be sliced into quarter-inch coins that can then be shingled over the creamy peanut butter on the slice of wonder bread, giving the look of a squished white-trash house found in the hood several streets away from any gingerbread mansion. However, looks are deceiving, and now’s the real coup de grace: grilling!

With the other slice of magnificent wonder bread covering up the shingled bananas-on-creamy-peanut-butter-on-white-wonderbread, the sandwich is born, but not yet ready to be considered done. In fact, it’s merely a ghost of itself, needing to be cooked in the most southern of ways to make it a real Elvis Special.

Hopefully you have some butter standing about that’s easy to spread on bread. We’re talking room temperature butter. Preferably butter that has not been near a cat. Or a dog. Or e.coli.

Take a butter knife, which, like a salad fork, has some sort of super power requiring that it, and only it, be used for the foodstuff it is named, and slather the top of the sandwhich until the white wonderbread takes on the color of butter, much the same way that snow takes on the same color, but in a much less appetizing way. Moving on.

A griddle is preferred for this part of the recipe. If, by some unfortunate twist of fate, you lack a griddle, you shall be shunned from Graceland forever. Looked upon with disdain. Found lacking in all things good. Or you can use a frying pan. No biggie.

Fire that baby up and drop the buttery side of the sandwich onto the heat. If you missed and your sandwich lands on the floor, may I recommend that one: you get a small dog, like a terrier, who will clean up the mess on the floor in a selfless and loving way, and two; cook with your eyes open. You might also try cooking with your eyes open.

Once on the griddle (for the chefs out there) or in the frying pan (for the stoners) grab that butter knife again and repeat the covering of the former-bottom-turned-top (insert gay joke here) as if you had never buttered before. Better yet, do it like you have a clue, and do it quickly. You’ve got to flip the sandwich before it burns, then get it on a plate and eat it. Now sing with me (to the tune of Blue Suede Shoes)

It’sa one with the peel,

two with the spread.

Watch me go baby,

just hand me the bread,

and we’ll have an Elvis-loved sandwich instead!






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