One time one of my friends was planning to leave the country for a couple of years, so he threw a party and called it “The Last Party.” The rest of us tweaked him about it a lot, talking about how there would be no more parties after this party and as soon as he left the country all partying would cease.

Point is, I’ll eat many more sandwiches in the future and probably write about a bunch of them here. But this is the last sandwich of Sandwich Week, so I figured it needed a heavy headline like that.

The sandwich: Peanut butter and jelly, from the analog TedQuarters kitchen.

The construction: Pepperidge Farm whole grain bread with Skippy Creamy peanut butter on both sides and Smuckers raspberry preserves.

After construction, the sandwich is cut diagonally, which is very, very important. Really can’t stress that enough. I don’t even know why it makes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches exponentially better to cut them diagonally, but it definitely does. I think it has something to do with the angles. A diagonal cut gives you a nice corner to bite into to start the sandwich.

Important background information: Sandwich Week took me around the world, via sandwich. I ate sandwiches inspired by Asian, European, Caribbean, South American and Middle Eastern cuisine, plus some plain old-fashioned New York deli sandwiches. They say this nation is a melting pot, a broth stewed from the contributions of myriad cultures. But I say soup is lame, and we live in a giant, sliced-open hero roll just waiting to be layered with the meats of a thousand nations.

I finished Sandwich Week with a peanut butter and jelly I made at home, an intentionally symbolic choice. I will likely often make meals of PB&J’s in the coming weeks as I work to cut the weight I gained during Sandwich Week. Plus, though I realize it’s probably not what the Fourth Earl of Sandwich enjoyed on that fateful day, I feel like peanut butter and jelly is almost the O.G. sandwich. For a variety of reasons, a fitting finale to a wonderful week.

What it looks like:

How it tastes: It’s peanut butter and jelly, dammit. It’s delicious.

Whole wheat bread is not my favorite, I’ll be honest, but it’s a concession I make to health. I ate a lot of fried food last week, fellas, and I can use a little fiber in the diet. If I were making my ideal peanut butter and jelly, I’d probably use potato bread. Soft, delicious potato bread, oddly yellow even though potatoes aren’t.

Skippy peanut butter is clearly the way to go. I know it’s not the healthiest of peanut butters or the most gourmet. But I’ve had the fancy peanut butters where the oil separates on top and all that nonsense and they’re just not my thing. So inconvenient. You want me to stir my peanut butter before I spread it on my bread (and then lick the knife)? That’s a whole extra step. I’m a busy man.

It’s Skippy, baby. That’s the good stuff. I’m cool with creamy or crunchy or honey-roasted or whatever, I’m just loyal to the brand.

As for the jelly, the Smuckers Red Raspberry Preserves is where it’s at. I’ve never been entirely clear on what distinguishes jam from jelly and jelly from preserves, but I know what I like, and this is it. I think jelly tends to have big lumps of goo in there, and that’s not what I want. I want something I can spread evenly over the peanut butter on the bread to create sandwich uniformity. If there are big blobs of grape jelly in there — delicious though they may be — I’m going to inevitably get some bites that are mostly jelly, and I don’t want that.

Also, it’s of the utmost important that peanut butter be spread on both sides of the bread. If you’re reading this blog I kind of assume you’re smart enough to know that. A) Bread doesn’t get soggy with jelly B) More peanut butter.

What it’s worth: Way more than what it costs, which is so, so little. A jar of peanut butter costs what, like $5, tops? And you get like 20 sandwiches out of that. And the preserves are like $4, and once you buy them you pretty much have that jar until you move. It’s like magic, unless you make jam bars or something. So a peanut butter and jelly sandwich costs like a dollar maybe. And the 30 seconds it takes to make it. That’s amazing. It’s hard to find a better ratio of cost:flavor.

The rating: 80 out of 100. Peanut butter and jelly isn’t going to win any awards, and it’s certainly never going to be adequately appreciated. But it just keeps doing its thing, year and year out, performing at a very high level despite a limited set of tools. Maybe some day peanut butter and jelly will have its day in the sun, where it comes into vogue and everyone realizes how cool peanut butter and jelly is, but until then it will just remain a quasi-novelty act among sandwiches: simple, straightforward, heroic. Adam Dunn?

I wanted to eat more than one sandwich yesterday. I did. But sometimes there’s some sort of festival going on in Prospect Park and a bunch of amazing-looking jerk chicken on barrel smokers everywhere you turn, and, well, you know. So there was no sandwich for lunch. Totally worth it, though. Also, the chicken was from a stand called “The Jerk Center,” and they’re running out of you.

The sandwich: Maine lobster roll, Red Hook Lobster Pound, 284 Van Brunt St. in Brooklyn.

The construction: One of them top-loading hot dog buns that are flat on the bottom, lightly buttered and grilled, loaded with their “Maine lobster salad,” which is just lobster meat with a little mayo, scallions and paprika.

The salad, I should note, isn’t as finely cut or heavily mayoed as lobster salads I’ve had in the past. It was basically just huge hunks of claw meat with a little bit of mayo. That’s good — if you’re eating lobster and paying for lobster, you want to taste the lobster.

Important background information: Where to begin. I know David Foster Wallace wrote an essay called “Consider the Lobster.” I haven’t read it, but I’ve certainly followed the instruction. Not because David Foster Wallace told me so, either.

I spent parts of three summers and a few winter breaks working at a huge wholesale/retail lobster market on Long Island. It was tough work, it wasn’t terribly close to my house, and the pay wasn’t great, but the people were nice, I needed a job and this one came with a t-shirt that said “Lobstertrician” on the back.

It wasn’t the hours, the heat, the often obnoxious customers or the occasional bites that got to me. It was the smell. That stench. It was something people liked upon stepping into the place: Fresh fish, saltwater, and boiling lobster. When it’s shellacked onto your skin and singed into your nostrils it becomes a different thing entirely.

I would shower after work and use four different types of soap, trying to scrub the odor off me. Nothing worked. One time, after really scouring myself, I thought I would be OK to go to the movies with a girl I was seeing. And I remember putting popcorn into my mouth, and recognizing the scent, plain as day, on my hand. Inescapable.

The massacres were something else entirely. If you read these pages with any regularity you know I don’t get too bent out of shape about invoking our food-chain privileges, but something about dumping crates upon crates full of living creatures into boiling water will make even the most ardent carnivore wax existential. I killed so many lobsters. I thought about that a lot.

What it looks like:

How it tastes: As you might imagine, I found it difficult to eat lobster or most seafood for years after my stint as a lobstertrician. And it wasn’t that I ate too much lobster or anything like that. It was just that smell. Any hint of it and I wasn’t hungry anymore.

I guess I’m over that now. Time will do some tremendous things for your appetite. This was a really good sandwich.

If you’re putting lobster on a sandwich, you have to let lobster do the talking. No disrespect to all the other delicious elements of a sandwich, but who wants their lobster salad indistinguishable from chicken salad?

The bread was tasty, buttery and warm, but didn’t overwhelm. Neither did the mayo, paprika or scallions. This baby was about that lobster meat, and it was tender, well-prepared (trust me, I know), rich and delicious. It was lobster meat, after all.

It wasn’t very big, though I suppose that’s sort of expected with lobster rolls. Hit the spot, though. After the jerk chicken I wasn’t exactly starving. Plus the lobster roll came with potato chips, which I’m not here to complain about.

What it’s worth: Red Hook Lobster Pound, despite a couple of huge vats of lobsters up front, didn’t really have the smell. Not sure how they avoided it. So that’s good.

But part of my issue with lobster, beyond the personal-history stuff, is that I’ve never really understood why people pay so much for it. It’s delicious, no doubt, but there are many delicious things that cost a whole lot less. Is it just a conspicuous consumption thing? Is the price of lobster driven up by their rarity? The amount of work that goes into harvesting lobster?

I don’t know. This was a $15 sandwich though, and that’s a lot of money to lay down for something that hardly constitutes a full meal. There was a good amount of fresh lobster meat on there, so I don’t doubt it would be worth $15 to anyone who regularly pays market rate for lobster. Since I rarely do, the price seems a bit silly to me. Also, it’s a big pain to get to Red Hook, even from other parts of Brooklyn.

But again, it was delicious.

The rating: 90 out of 100. To some, the Maine Lobster Roll will seem great and a great value, to others, it will seem a bit overrated and too expensive. But it is inarguably excellent. Oh, and it’s from New England. Tom Glavine.

When I worked in Chelsea I used to pass this place all the time. And every time I thought, “hmm… Japanese fried chicken, huh? I oughta try that place.” I was right.

The sandwich: Chicken Katsu sandwich from Tebaya, 144 w. 19th St. in Manhattan.

The construction: Two deep fried chicken cutlets on a soft bun with cole slaw, miso sauce and homemade wasabi dressing.

Important background information: Cole slaw is a delicious sandwich topper. Great way to add flavor, moisture and crunch in one fell swoop. One of my go-to orders at delis is honey-maple turkey, bacon, muenster and cole slaw. You don’t need dressing when it’s like that.

What it looks like:

How it tastes: That’s a lot of chicken, fellas. A lot of delicious chicken.

Tebaya used dark meat, which I really appreciate. I’ve never understood why dark meat costs less than white meat, it tastes much better. Sure, it’s fattier, but that just means it stays moist better under heat. I suppose it was that choice that made Tebaya use two cutlets instead of one, since boneless thighs are generally smaller than boneless breasts and one alone might not have filled out the sandwich.

The chicken was amazingly crispy. The breading was thick — I assume it was panko — and it really crunched, especially when I first bit into it. They clearly fried it to order, which makes two chicken cutlets in a row for me. Sandwich Week rules.

The miso sauce — coating the chicken — was very good. Tasted like sweeter, gooier soy sauce basically, which I guess is what miso sauce is. The cole slaw was present, but it didn’t really have much flavor and whatever extra crunch it might have added was unnecessary thanks to the crispyness of the chicken. I didn’t taste any wasabi at all.

Still, the chicken in miso sauce on its own was good enough to carry the sandwich to excellence. But I couldn’t finish it, which says something. There was just a lot of food there.

What it’s worth: More than the $6 I paid, for certain. What a bargain! I could have cut this thing in half and made it two small meals. That’s like Taco Bell levels of reasonable. The subways came pretty quick, too, so I actually invested less time in this sandwich than any but the ones I made at home. And it was definitely worth it.

The rating: 88 out of 100. An excellent and exciting sandwich, if not a particularly dynamic one. And maybe a tiny bit too big for its own good, if that’s even possible. Prince Fielder?