The mysterious jar of peanut butter

My wife and I returned recently from a trip to find a jar of peanut butter on the breakfast bar.

While we were gone, our daughter stayed at the house for a couple of nights. Because the peanut butter is Skippy Natural Creamy and because she is a healthy eater, we assumed it was hers. The next time we saw her, we tried to give it back.

Except she said it wasn’t hers.

OK. My parents also came over to feed the cats while we were gone. I couldn’t fathom why my mom or dad would be eating peanut butter while spooning cat food or scooping litter, but whatever. I texted them to say I had their jar.

Except they said it wasn’t theirs.

Now here’s the thing: My wife and I both loathe Skippy Peanut Butter. On the taste scale, it falls somewhere between asparagus and butt. If I had a choice between eating Skippy or eating roadkill, I’d … well, I’d still choose Skippy, but I would have to think about it first. It’s that bad.

Add to this my loathing of “natural” peanut butter, which eliminates two of the product’s greatest assets, sugar and hydrogenated oils. This particular jar, which I am staring at while I type these words, promises, “No need to stir!” Hardly a ringing endorsement.

In other words, no way did this peanut butter accidentally fell out of the cupboard. Nor did we ever buy it. And the three people who had access to our house while we were gone don’t own it, either.

There’s only one solution: Somebody threw an unauthorized party.

Years ago, one of my students told me about a huge soiree he had thrown while his parents were out of town. He said he had dozens of people in the house, dancing and singing and doing whatever else mice do when cats are away at a Barry Manilow concert. Before the party broke up, the guests cleaned everything. Tidied the bathroom. Removed all the beverage containers. Even ran the sweeper.

“So you got away with it?” I asked.

“No,” he replied with a sulk. “Some jerk peed in my mom’s flower vase, and she found it the next day.”

The story is perfect — maybe a little too perfect to be true. But it illustrates one of Schillig’s Unalterable Laws of Life: It’s impossible to throw a party in somebody’s house when they are away without leaving evidence behind.

So somebody was partying in my place, and one of those somebodies left behind an incriminating jar of Skippy Natural Creamy peanut butter, with No Need to Stir.

When was this party and how many people were here? In addition to sitting around eating Skippy Natural, what other insidious activities might they have taken part in? Secret cornhole tournaments in the back yard? Clandestine games of rummy in the dining room? Playing the soundtrack from “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” at high volumes after midnight?

Now that I look around the house, it occurs to me that some of our photos have moved slightly, as if unknown hands returned them to not-quite-right positions after a jitterbug contest in the living room. And one of the slats on the kitchen blinds is off kilter just a hair, as though somebody raised it to see if police were responding to a noise complaint. Worst of all, episodes of “The 700 Club” have appeared on the DVR. Brrr.

Yes, something happened here while we were gone.

I know a surefire way to validate this, but it involves opening the jar of Skippy.

Remembering the lesson of my student and his mother’s flower vase (and fearing peenut butter), I haven’t — and I won’t.

Some parties, like some cover-ups, are best left a mystery.

Originally published July 2015. The mystery is still unsolved.