Fragments From Floyd

Bananas: the zippered fruit of winter. Abundant. Cheap. And for topping the morning cereal now there will be no competition the disappeared berries of summer. You want fruit, you eat bananas, bucko. But alas, all is not well in cereal land. There ought to be a better way in this Goldilocks world where nobody is happy because bananas-- the lone breakfast fruit of months that have "R" in them-- are never 'just right'. Fear not for I have had an epiphany.

Ann buys bananas still warm off the boat-- lime green and hard as rocks-- for herself. I can't bear to look at them in this fetal preemie state and so we keep them in a dark grotto of the kitchen while they continue to gestate. In a day or two, still mostly green, she will think them at the peak of edibility, firm as a football, all chlorophyllic and smelling like grass clippings from under the mower. When they first begin to yellow, however, she tells me they're all mine. The smell of bananas honestly and fully and wonderfully ripe makes her gag. De gustibus non desparado, as they say.

Of course, some strains of Central American banana have a reputation for duplicity, and one must be on guard. I approach her yellowing hand-me-downs, therefore, with some skepticism. They may show yellowish tendencies and seem to those of us on the riper side of the maturation spectrum to approach edibility. But one whiff from a test-incision says right off that it will be another three days to a month before I can look that Cheshire Cat grinning fruit in the face again, and it goes back in the wicker basket under the microwave. There they will stay until the sentries of perfect banana ripeness-- our friends the fruit flies-- hover over these smile-shaped fruits that are finally, at last, showing those wonderful brown speckles against a black and yellow mosaic that indicate their time has possibly come.

On that happy morning when I wake up and know that the banana rights are mine, I take out the nearest table knife and slice amidships with hopeful skepticism. But I've been disappointed so many times to get my hopes up too high. Even now, it may not be that point of perfect ripeness we all long for. They may when cut-- regardless of what their peeling coloration tells you-- still smell of grass clippings and need another few hours or days, or maybe a month or more to be 'just right'. Who the heck knows. More likely by this stage, however, the skin will sag under the knife blade pressing down against the semi-solid mash inside: a condition called "squishy" in the trade. From the bruised incision a thick over-ripe custard will extrude, smelling of cloyingly-sweet banana taffee. This aroma will be followed immediately by a tiny flying circus of fruit flies, created of course, by spontaneous generation as we all know. Banana bread is in your future, my friend. Lots and lots of banana bread.

Bananas are the nobody's-happy fruit of winter, but the day is coming when this lamentable situation will end. Rejoice, brethren and sistren, I have seen the future. . . a time when over-ripe and under-ripe will no longer have meaning in the banana republic. Just as in the world of matrimony there is someone for everyone (and you may be living proof of this very fact), every banana is just right for someone in the world at some precise moment in time. In those wonderful days ahead we will teleport bananas across the known universe, from one kitchen to another, just like we send email attachments today! With the Universal Registry of Banana Preference, each person can have their breakfast fruit exactly like they like it! Not too green, not too ripe. It's gonna be glorious, ah man!

I am first to admit that this Divine Revelation could just be the Chlorphenirimine and Neosynephrin talking. Sure thing with this cold that my brain's not getting enough oxygen today. Just let me rant through the weekend. Maybe I'll be back to normal by Monday; which is no guarantee the quality of posts will go up, of course. Keep expectations low and you'll rarely be disappointed, grasshopper. And now, your Moment of zen:

Time Flies Like an Arrow…
… but fruit flies like bananas.