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Cambridge, Massachusetts is the Whole Foods capital of the world. I am not sure if this is literally true, but within three miles of my house, there are ten of them.

Whole Foods is okay. I deeply respect that their bananas are unusually ripe, but dislike that—because they are too good for normal brands—oatmeal costs six dollars. Despite its convenience, I try to shop elsewhere on bigger trips.

One day, when I’d almost run out of non-perishables and didn’t want to get price gouged, I drove to Market Basket, a well-known and inexpensive New England chain that sells peanut butter at a reasonable price.

Of course, grocery shopping is not as simple as it once was. Now there are lines and masks and bouncers who stand at the entrance, tallying customers and yelling when they think you have not heard their very simple instruction, which is to continue waiting outside the store.

I got to Market Basket at 5:10, two hours and fifty minutes before the standard closing time. Due to the pandemic, however, the store was closing two hours early so that they could take an industrial hose and power wash every surface and employee. A line formed by upturned shopping carts and caution tape stretched the width of the store.

I waited for about half an hour as a masked police officer and a couple of employees stood at the front of the line, making sure each customer entering and exiting the store was rigorously accounted for. Twenty-five minutes before the store was set to close, my chances of getting in were fading; I would have to spend $5.99 for Whole Foods’ gourmet chocolate chips produced in a nut-free, gluten-free facility.

But as I began to feel that my waiting might be meaningless, the rules suddenly ceased. The cop and Market Basket employees began waving us in, metaphorically spiking their mechanical counters into the ground like former Patriot and party-cruise enthusiast Rob Gronkowski. We all filed in, confused but elated that the coronavirus had suddenly lost all ability to spread from person to person indoors.

I raced through the store, under immense pressure to buy everything on my list in just a few minutes and without breathing on anybody. I grabbed two bags of whole wheat bread, mirin, sesame oil, and cacao powder. I searched desperately for the El Monterrey frozen burritos my roommate had requested. And then it was time to get some peanut butter. With the loudspeaker blaring that we all needed to get to the checkout line, I grabbed two large containers of Jif and tossed them into my cart. Over a one-and-a-half month period, this purchase would save me approximately three dollars. I felt as good as Lyndon Johnson did when he stole the 1948 Texas Democratic Primary.

But upon entering my apartment, I grew suspicious of the Jif. It looked like peanut butter, was packaged like peanut butter—but the words “peanut butter” were nowhere to be seen. All my life, I had associated the brand “Jif” with peanut butter. I knew that “Choosy moms choose Jif” and watched one such mom use Jif to impose game theory on her TV children. Unfortunately, this was not peanut butter. It was a “Reduced Fat Peanut Butter Spread.”

I had failed. Peanuts were the top ingredient, but the second was “Corn Syrup Solids,” which just sounds frightening. The rest of the label was filled glycerides, oxides, hydrochlorides, orthophosphates, and all sorts of chemicals otherwise used to incapacitate terrorists. The texture was like peanut butter processed through a printer. It kind of gleamed. It was smooth to a degree I never thought achievable.

Reluctantly, over a few weeks, I finished one container of reduced-fat Jif because I didn’t want to return to the grocery store or waste it. It was fine.

But if you want my other one, it’s all yours. Based on Amazon reviews, it seems like I’m the only person who does not love it.

Jif Reduced Fat Creamy Peanut Spread: 4.7/10

(This blog is named in honor of Stewart’s Shops’ best-selling ice cream.)