Maybe just a dash of flour and a drop of milk

This morning, I looked at the microwave where two bananas laid in wait. That is, fruit flies also laid in wait. A few weeks ago, I found a great deal and bought up a bunch of bananas. And today, as I guiltily got morning drink (today: fresh ginger and fresh lemon), my eyes rested on the yellow objects in a plastic bag where I could see black dots moving.

I told myself, “Today is the day.”

I stripped the bananas. Removed the single black part (I am not that disgusting!). Then proceeded to estimate a recipe for banana bread. Of course, being that it was two bananas, the resulting mixture was less than optimal. The flour was still dry, sticking to the egg and butter. It looked like a barely recognizable pizza dough. I grabbed milk from the fridge. Whole milk that I used earlier for a bread pudding that I disliked for its overpowering taste of rum. I poured a little in. Then with a swoop, I poured the whole thing in.

Now that looks right, I thought. Something felt wrong. I poured it into my loaf pan and set it for 350° F. I went away and checked on it in a hour. It looked like it needed more time. So I promptly forgot about it for another 30 minutes, immersed in writing proposals and creative nonfiction workshop…also flitting from my ice cream travel guide to personal essays.

I ran over to the kitchen from my desk. It looked pretty good. I turned it over on a plate and the innards, the banana mush, the milk banana mash spilled out of an opening. Banana cereal. Banana-flavored milk that is. I hesitated and covered it with a paper towel, pretending it never happened. I retreated back to my desk, drinking my ginger lemon drink and absently munching on the dark-colored Jelly Belly beans that I didn’t like. I forgot about the banana bread mess until now.

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