It
has to be said that I do love my husband, Maarten, dearly. But . . . (yes, there’s
always a but…) he has this vehement antipathy that is secretly threatening to blow
our marriage wide apart. He harbors a suspiciously strong aversion to one thing
in particular while, conversely, I actually love it. Not love as in the “I want to marry you and be the mother of your
saffron-hued children” sense, but enough of a feeling of fondness that I’m not
opposed to resorting to my occasional secret stash, scouring the internet for
different ways to use it to my advantage (please don’t get this misconstrued; it
doesn’t say “ways to take advantage of it…”) and quietly coveting it when I see
someone else in possession of it.
My
husband, bless his heart, hates bananas. He loathes them. He abhors bananas so
totally, greatly and completely and regards them with such contempt and disdain
that once, when he spotted a squished banana in the middle of the street, he
actually took time out of his day to take a picture of it, posted the pitiful
specimen on Facebook and declared “The only good banana is a dead one.”
May
that poor, innocent banana rest in peace.
I
love my husband, really, I do . . . but that’s just not normal behavior.
Why
such disrespect for a fruit that never meant anyone any harm? Well, first and
foremost, Maarten—the man that I took to be my lawfully wedded husband; the man
that I lay next to every night (when he’s not gallivanting around the globe on
business); the man with whom I entrust my very life—claims that bananas are
evil. He even went so far as to create a page on Facebook titled “Bananas are
Evil.” Luckily, his hate-mongering page never survived the Facebook
transformation that took place a short while back. But evil. Really? Really?!? I’m sorry; I must have missed the
trailer for that summer blockbuster movie, “Wild Bunch: The Bananas That Ate New
York.”
His
second gripe I can understand . . . sort of. It’s a texture thing. For him, it’s
just all wrong. I get that way with mushrooms (just weird), bread soaked in
gravy (too soggy), kettle chips (too crunchy) and Jamie Oliver (just too damn
grating).
Strike
number three is, in my opinion, a displaced show of solidarity. I believe in
one for all and all for one, but this is ridiculous. His grandfather hated
bananas and so he, in turn, must devote his life to a bracing distrust and abhorrence
of bananas. Let’s see: my grandmother hated purple, but it just so happens to
be my favorite color; my father cannot tolerate asparagus, whereas I could eat
the nutty, stalky beauties every day. My eldest sister holds scallops in the
highest disregard while I, on the
other hand, have an affinity for the mollusk with the muscle.
You
get where I’m going with this?
 |
| What is so evil about this? |
To
denigrate an entire, uh, race of fruit merely because you once ate a soggy,
mushy, smelly distant relative of the starchier, less sweet plantain is totally
beyond me. Bananas are far from evil. Although high in calories (and,
unfortunately, many of those calories come from sugars), they’re a good source
of fiber, Vitamins C and B6, manganese and potassium. They’re also low in
sodium, cholesterol and saturated fat.
Yet
still, he hates them.
There’s
absolutely nothing I can do to change my husband’s mind about the viability of
bananas. No amount of banana-infused bread pudding, milkshakes, cookies or crème
pies that I toss at him will change that. And I’m fine with that. And I, as
such, will never ever in life as long
as I am a black woman develop a fondness for sushi, which he has tried and
failed on many occasions to coax me into eating. Been there . . . done that . .
. can write the horror story to end all horror stories on that.
However,
his dislike for bananas will not rob me of the pleasure of indulging in the lusciously
delectable fruit that can be prepared in so many ways.
For
instance,
- Not Yo' Mama's Bread Pudding
- Momma Callie’s Banana Nut Bread with Honey Butter
- Milk Chocolate Banana Pudding
- Banana Sour Cream Bread
The possibilities are endless.
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