My name is Sherry, and I love bananas. I love eating them right out of the peel or sliced up in a bowl full of cheerios. I do not however care for banana nut bread. You see I like a perfect banana, no green, no speckles and absolutely no smell!
In order to make banana nut bread the banana has to be very ripe or as I like to say- rotten. I can taste that rottenness each time I
attempt to try the bread. In my opinion there are not many things that smell or taste as bad as a rotten banana. I can feel my nose wrinkling just writing this, they bother me that much.
I always have an issue when at the grocery store when it comes to bananas. I
take my time searching for just the right bunch. The ones that will turn to
their perfect selves within days, only to have the clerk toss them unceremoniously into the bag with other items. Just a simple toss is all that is needed to bruise those tender yellow skins. What was perfect when placed into my basket always seems to be dotted with black speckles by the time I arrive home, and the drive is less than a mile. I am seriously contemplating requesting that the clerk hand me the bananas after ringing them up. I am sure such action will label me a loon-or worse yet -the crazy banana lady- but at least my bananas will be edible for a day, or maybe even two.
All of this talk of bananas reminds me of one of my favorite stories about my son Ben. He was just a little guy then, so little we still referred to him as Benny. If I recall correctly he was around the age of two. We lived in a two story condo in Charleston, S.C.. The bottom floor boasted a living room, eat-in kitchen, and utility room-not much
room to get lost in. However one day I could not find Ben. I knew he was not
upstairs, as he didn’t go up there alone, but after a quick search of the main
area I began to panic. Ben was nowhere to be found. I forced myself to stop and
take in a deep breath before calling out his name. “Benny?”
Thankfully I was graced with an answer, albeit from a
somewhat muffled voice. “What?”
“Where are you?” I asked, still not knowing where the voice had originated from.
“Under the Table,” the voice was considerably more muffled this time.
I crossed the room, pulled up the tablecloth, and there under the table was my little boy. Who had apparently been attempting to speak with a mouth full of bananas. The floor around him was littered with black banana skins, from the bananas that I had tossed in the trash a few hours before. He took another bite and mumbled his pleasure.
“Mmmmm” Obviously Ben did not share my distaste of overly ripe bananas.
It is one of those memories that stick with you over the years. To this day I cannot look at a rotten banana and not think of little Benny, hiding under the table, with his horde of treasure he’d pulled from the trash.
Bunches of love to you all!
In order to make banana nut bread the banana has to be very ripe or as I like to say- rotten. I can taste that rottenness each time I
attempt to try the bread. In my opinion there are not many things that smell or taste as bad as a rotten banana. I can feel my nose wrinkling just writing this, they bother me that much.
I always have an issue when at the grocery store when it comes to bananas. I
take my time searching for just the right bunch. The ones that will turn to
their perfect selves within days, only to have the clerk toss them unceremoniously into the bag with other items. Just a simple toss is all that is needed to bruise those tender yellow skins. What was perfect when placed into my basket always seems to be dotted with black speckles by the time I arrive home, and the drive is less than a mile. I am seriously contemplating requesting that the clerk hand me the bananas after ringing them up. I am sure such action will label me a loon-or worse yet -the crazy banana lady- but at least my bananas will be edible for a day, or maybe even two.
All of this talk of bananas reminds me of one of my favorite stories about my son Ben. He was just a little guy then, so little we still referred to him as Benny. If I recall correctly he was around the age of two. We lived in a two story condo in Charleston, S.C.. The bottom floor boasted a living room, eat-in kitchen, and utility room-not much
room to get lost in. However one day I could not find Ben. I knew he was not
upstairs, as he didn’t go up there alone, but after a quick search of the main
area I began to panic. Ben was nowhere to be found. I forced myself to stop and
take in a deep breath before calling out his name. “Benny?”
Thankfully I was graced with an answer, albeit from a
somewhat muffled voice. “What?”
“Where are you?” I asked, still not knowing where the voice had originated from.
“Under the Table,” the voice was considerably more muffled this time.
I crossed the room, pulled up the tablecloth, and there under the table was my little boy. Who had apparently been attempting to speak with a mouth full of bananas. The floor around him was littered with black banana skins, from the bananas that I had tossed in the trash a few hours before. He took another bite and mumbled his pleasure.
“Mmmmm” Obviously Ben did not share my distaste of overly ripe bananas.
It is one of those memories that stick with you over the years. To this day I cannot look at a rotten banana and not think of little Benny, hiding under the table, with his horde of treasure he’d pulled from the trash.
Bunches of love to you all!
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