Going a little bananas

There’s a story behind this loaf of banana bread.

It starts way back at the beginning of the pandemic, when my friend Rich Swanson was whiling away time in lockdown by messing around in his kitchen. Rich is a culinary savant, able to take regular ingredients and combine them in ways no mere mortal has ever considered, and come out on the other side with something unforgettably delectable. He dubbed each one of these kitchen quarantine experiments “Apocalypse? Now? Part XX” and he would include a blow-by-blow account of what he had made and why. As lockdown continued, they got considerably more complicated, and considerably weirder. (For context, Rich is up to Part 164.)

Part of this fun was a trip down a banana bread rabbit hole, when Rich would add weird stuff to the loaf prior to baking. It began in the summertime when he started putting Hostess treats inside. He kicked it off with Twinkies, and when I commented that I don’t like Twinkies but I do love Ring Dings, voila, there they were. Incredible.

Lots more ’Nana Bread weirdness ensued, and then stopped for a massive kitchen renovation, and then started up again. This time Rich posted about something he called “Nine Banana Banana Bread,” which included dried banana chips he produced in his dehydrator (yes, he has a dehydrator), extra bananas, and other stuff that I couldn’t explain if I tried.

Have I mentioned that banana bread is my favorite, and my grandmother’s recipe is the best recipe there is, spoiling me for most other banana breads?

So I text Rich, volunteering to taste-test this batch of madness, and we meet in a sketchy parking lot in New London under the cover of darkness like we have been since this shit show started (masked, of course). And I carry this little foil-wrapped packet home, nestled safely in my bosom.

When I get home, I carefully unwrap the foil and take in a huge breath through my nose, and I am rewarded with a full blast aroma of BANANA. It’s a gorgeous color, perfectly browned. I rewrap the little loaf, planning my breakfast the next morning.

First thing I think when my eyes pop open the next morning is, “I am going to have 2 slices of that banana bread, toasted, with butter, and some scrambled eggs.” With a spring in my step I enter the kitchen, make the coffee, feed the dog, and then turn to the counter to get the banana bread.

The banana bread. Is not there.

I look in the fridge. I look in the freezer. I go back out to my car, even though I remember bringing it in. I look in all the cupboards. I look in the fridge again.

The banana bread. Is gone.

Husband appears. “Did you see my banana bread?” I ask. “Yes,” he says. “I had a little piece last night.” “Did you eat the whole thing,” I ask. “No,” he says, starting to look worried. “I just had the little end. … It was very good.”

I go upstairs. “Max,” I call to my 20-year-old son, asleep in his third floor loft bedroom. “Did you eat my banana bread?”

“What?” the croaky voice comes back. “Yes.”

“THE WHOLE FUCKING THING?” I ask.

“What? Yes. It was really small.”

My banana bread, my Nine Banana Banana Bread, bread that Rich described as having “pew pew banana flavor” was gone.

Now, I am going to blame what happened next on 10 months of global pandemic, COVID anxiety, job anxiety, holiday anxiety, my general tendency to revert to high drama, and the fact that what was possibility the greatest loaf of banana bread in the history of mankind did not pass my lips. I cried.

These weren’t sad tears. These were enraged, I-want-to-fucking-kill-someone tears. I grabbed the dog and we went for a walk and when we got back I wasn’t crying anymore but my whole day was definitely trashed. I was so pissed. I opted for silent treatment and commenced forbidding brooding.

A short time later, Max appeared and started to put on his sneakers. “Where are you going,” I asked. “The store,” he said. “I don’t want store-bought banana bread,” I said. He took off his shoes.

A while after that, he went out and then came back, with, of all things, a small tub of Crisco. “What’s that for,” I asked. “I’m going to make banana bread,” he said. “Not with that,” I said. “Use Grandma’s recipe. And also those bananas aren’t rotten enough.”

He and my husband whisper together, and then put 4 bananas in a brown paper bag.

Two days pass. The bananas emerge from the bag, perfect for the recipe. I am watching television when Max starts. My husband is skulking around, trying to look like he isn’t helping Max, but he is totally helping Max. I pretend I am not noticing.

And then, incredibly, there’s a real-life Schitt’s Creek moment happening in my kitchen.

“It says ‘sift dry ingredients together’,” Max mutters to his father. “What does that mean?” “I don’t know,” my husband says. “Maybe just stirring them together?” “It doesn’t say stir it says sift,” Max says. “I don’t know what that is.”

Without saying a word I go into the cupboard where the sifter is, pull it out, and put it on the counter.

An hour later, a beautiful and aromatic loaf of Grandma’s Banana Bread is pulled from the oven and placed on a rack to cool. The next morning for my breakfast, I had two slices, toasted with butter, and some scrambled eggs.