“You have to peel the banana first,” his mother patiently explained.

“Drop,” the boy said as he released an unpeeled banana into the mixing bowl onto a white bed of sugar.

He picked up a second unpeeled and equally ripe banana. The stem bent when he tried to pull it down and the fruit refused to open in his hands. Undeterred, the boy channeled his inner animal and tried to peel it with his sharp teeth, only further mushifying it.

He discarded the banana and prepared to dismount his stool with slimy banana hands.


“No, Little Legs. It is not trash. We need that to make the banana bread.”

His mother reviewed the recipe with one eye while watching her son with the other. He turned around and decided to stay, hopeful for a few moments alone with the sugar. He grabbed for the bag with both hands.

“I don’t think so, buster,” she declared, removing the bag from his hands.  

He didn’t protest because a new opportunity presented itself, the unguarded mixing bowl. He grabbed it and dipped his finger in to sample the sugar and butter. The bowl was pushed out of his reach by an omnipotent hand, only encouraging him to climb onto the counter after it.

“Ok, the eggs are next.  Do you want to help add them?”  


From that point, the eggs were cracked with the shells and dumped on the counter, the flour barely made it to the bowl, minus a swiped handful which ended up in Little Legs’ mouth, and the gooey mixture was still not ready for the oven because a baby started to cry in the background, ready for his next all-liquid, all-the-time snack.

If there was a world record for the longest banana bread making experience, they probably would have won it, hands down.

For all we know, they are still mixing and mashing.  

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