In the late ’80s, my husband was given an Air Force assignment to a new missile base in Holland (part of Reagan’s missile buildup). [Editorial note: Yay!] In our beautiful little Dutch town, our landlords lived next door to us. They invited us to the husband’s birthday party. After some drinks, the Dutch guests began talking about the occupation and liberation of Holland.
The husband shared the story of being a small boy and marveling at the fact that, after liberating his town, the Americans set up a chow line and had the entire (starving) population go through it. He had his metal tray and nearly pulled it away when the cook plopped down a brown blob. He thought, “It doesn’t look like chocolate, maybe it’s pudding?”
Then this hungry little boy stuck his finger in it, and, mmmm, it was peanut butter! He’d never eaten it, and loved it from that day on. It became a sort of symbol for him of American goodness and generosity.
I can just imagine when he had his first Reese’s cups (pronounced, by many an American, “Reesey’s”).