NO, WE HAVE BANANAS EVERY DAY

Like most people, I am not that into bananas. My apartment mate, being somewhat vested in the pre-biotic and pro-biotic gestalt, talks at length about bananas a the crack of dawn. So, as any rational man would do I finish my coffee and head out into the gloomy cracked dawn outside with my pipe and some aged tobacco for a banana-free interlude up near the top of the hill, past the spot where the pooing bum presented into traffic two decades ago, past the raccoon basement window, past where the yippie terror fought with a garbage can.

Note: chihuahuas often have vile attitudes.
Much like the freaks that own them.

There are no bananas out there. Climate change has not gotten that far yet. Eventually there might be banana trees all the way north to Seattle, stretching as far as the eye can see, feral suburbanite kiddie-winkies swinging through the canopy and hooting savagely as they hunt down cell-phone rechargers.

Bananas sometimes give me the itchies. So I have mostly avoided them for many years. They're okay if cooked. That destroys whatever that substance is. Baked in millefeuille.
Or flambéed, perhaps augmented with chocolate sauce or whipped cream.

Bananas are scarcely feautured in the great cuisines.

The Swedes, who are known for odd cookments, invented a casserole probably suitable for Midwestern church suppers that included bananas as a primary ingredient, called flygande Jacob ('flying Jacob'), which also contains chicken, cream, bacon, and peanuts.
It probably goes great with lutefisk.

The Dutch, my own people, at one point where trying to market a banana liquer to Americans, who will drink anything. Apparently Americans won't drink that. Sad.

Naturally I applaud both peoples for trying to make the best of things.

It's not easy living in boggy rainy wet cold windy climates.
The banana is a patch of sunlight in their lives.
Brightness amidst gloom and damp.
Alleviates the bog sog.
Banana.



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