Going Bananas

On Sunday mornings I treat myself to something special – a banana. What I really want is a dozen doughnuts, French toast slathered in melting butter with warm syrup and powdered sugar, bacon – perfectly crisp and slightly greasy so it coats the inside of your mouth and the flavor lingers for hours. And of course the list goes on and on.

But I have a banana – firm and not too ripe, with a little green still at the stem.

I know I shouldn’t, but I deprive myself all week of any culinary delight that might bring me joy, just so I can have that silly banana. And I savor every delectable bite.

I’ve always been a fan of the phallic fruit. The actual thing or anything banana-flavored. 

A personal favorite growing up was banana-flavored moon pies. I could go through an entire box (12 pies) in a matter of hours and still want more. The chocolate ones would never do; it had to be the banana-flavored ones – about 4-inches in diameter, thick, gummy marshmallow filling between soft graham crackers and covered in the waxy, butter-yellow coating that never seemed to melt even on the hottest day. I have no idea what that coating was made of but I am sure it couldn’t have been healthy. Maybe that’s what made it so wonderful.

I still want it. But one would never do. I want the whole box. And not the tiny ones they sell today but the big, thick, sugary ones I had as a kid.

I’m not a kid anymore and I don’t mourn that fact. Actually, life in my childhood is not a place I would really want to go back to even if I had the option. But if I could step back for just one hour, open the pantry and feel the absolute elation of finding an unopened box of banana moon pies, plant myself on the cool linoleum of the kitchen floor and gorge myself in such pure bliss, I would do it without thinking twice.