Bananas seem, at first glance, to be fairly benign. However, that could not be further from the case.
The Mom is always offering me a banana when I announce that I’m hungry and would like a snack.Or when we were kids, bananas were the standard reply to the cry of ‘we want dessert’. And the banana has been a staple in our diets since back in the day when we couldn’t eat anything, thus my dislike of them has had sufficient time to ferment. I suppose that, because it’s such a dull thing, there’s nothing in it that could have possibly upset our delicate little constitutions.
Why anyone would bother with bananas in the middle of the southwestern Ontario summer fruit season is beyond me. When faced with baskets brimming over with strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, peaches, melons and the like, why on God’s earth would you choose to eat something as pedestrian as a banana? They’re not even juicy. They are the meh of the fruit world. They have a horrible texture, a boring colour, and beyond their kind of funky shape (and the associated wacky holders one can get for them) bananas have in no way lived up to their potential.
At my old London office, we had very sharp opinions about bananas. And we revised and revisited them frequently. One person would only eat them cold and green, right out of the fridge. Someone else couldn’t even consider eating them unless they were at room temperature. Another person required them to be entirely blemish free. If anyone so much as suggested someone get, eat, or otherwise deal with a banana, suggestions, ideas and threats were issued in abundance. It got to the point where I considered including rules about bananas in the standard induction.
An ex of mine went even further in his hatred of the banana. If he was on a Tube carriage or bus and some foolish passenger began eating a banana he could smell it immediately. Whereupon he had to move to another carriage or possibly even remove himself from the bus because the smell of the damned things made him so nauseous. He used to buy smoothies I liked when I stayed over and if ever we bought the one that had banana in it, he wouldn’t drink it. Even if it was full of passion fruit and the banana couldn’t be tasted. He knew it was in there and that was plenty disgusting. I’m actually quite impressed he allowed said smoothie into his house.
Eating a banana, to me, says I’ve given up on life. I can no longer be bothered with feeding myself properly, and so will just continue to eat this. It’s a precursor to so many other tragedies: the wearing of track pants outside the home, not washing or brushing one’s hair for long periods of time, refusing to maintain even the bare minimum of hygiene standards.
The Mom has yet to fall prey to these things, but I fear it is only a matter of time. But maybe this is because she refuses to eat an entire banana in one go. She’ll eat about half of one, wrap it back up in its own peel, and then put it ‘somewhere safe’ which is usually whichever counter is close. And that’s where the banana will languish because she won’t go back to it. No one will. Half-eaten food is rarely popular, but it’s the death knell for a banana. And while L’il Sis makes a mean banana bread, there’s only so much that can be reasonably consumed.
Whilst at home in the summer, with all the other beautiful, delicious fruits plying their wares, I find it offensive in the extreme that The Mom would bother with such a boring piece of fruit. She claims it’s just because they’re easy. As if that’s why anybody ate fruit in the first place.