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My son must have inherited his love of bananas from me, although now I can’t bring myself to smell one let alone eat one. I force myself to buy them and let them live out their short lives on my kitchen counter top. Thankfully, they do not overstay their welcome. Christopher, my thirteen-year-old son and our eating machine makes sure of that. Actually when I think about it, between my son and my daughter food has a shelf life of about ten minutes in our house. I must admit I love food as well, from spaghetti and meatballs to cookies but the banana is one food that I do not hold affection for, they are the “forbidden” fruit to me. When I was a child I loved them. The bright canary color of a ripe banana was splendid. Getting to pull off the symmetrical sections of the peel to expose the sweet but healthy treat inside was rewarding. Almost like unwrapping a present, only this present came in bunches and I would have loved to unwrap every one of them, if only my mom would have allowed me to. A cluster of these wholesome edible favors it seemed you could pair with just about anything, a big bonus in my book. One of my favorite concoctions were banana splits. Mounds of chocolate, vanilla and strawberry ice cream sitting atop the crescent shaped fruit. Whipped cream and peanuts drowned in chocolate sauce and to dress it up a little a polished bright red cherry as its crowning glory. My mom would slice them and magically they would change shape and become little circles, which I would then strategically place into smiley face formation on a piece of bread smothered in peanut butter, or laid them umbrella like on top of my cereal before pouring on the milk and then secretly giving them a dusting of sugar. Even with the thought of a wonderfully sweet banana split or tasty peanut butter and banana sandwich I get that tingly feeling in my jaw. The feeling of knowing that, even if I smell one, I’m going to be sick. An unmistakable sign of illness for me. My aversion to bananas came years ago when my daughter was a baby. I would buy her weekly supply of colorful baby food in tiny jars always remembering to include carrots, peas, squash and of course the beloved banana. She used to gobble them up often inpatient at how long it took me to gather a spoonful out of the jar and put them in her mouth. After what I’m sure was a second jar of the fruit she must have pushed her tiny tummy too far and those sweet pureed bananas made an encore, right onto my shirt and everything else within a three-foot radius. Right then and there my banana eating days were over. I always found it psychologically fascinating how an experience such as that can change how you feel about food. One day it is one of your favorite things to eat and the next day there is no way you are ever going to partake of it again. Even though I don’t think I will ever be able to overcome my banana affliction I make sure that my son gets his banana fix. Just because I don’t like something or do not want to eat it doesn’t mean he should have to suffer. Personally I would be happy if they were never to invade my kitchen again. I’m sure he feels the same way about the scores ofgreen beans that descend upon our dining room table every now and then.  Touch the bananas to return to Many Moods |