Here’s the deal. I bought some bananas. You know, to eat. When I went to bed last night, they were green and unripe. When I woke up this morning, they were brown and mushy. I had, apparently, slept through their eighteen-minute window of ripeness.
Bananas are the divas of the fruit world. “We’re not ready yet, we’re not ready yet…we were ready five minutes ago, where were you?” I don’t care for their high maintenance attitude. But, alas, I’m a sucker for their deliciousness.
You know those pop-up timers that tell you when a turkey is done? I would be a rich man if I could invent one of those for bananas. Imagine if you could attach a device to your bananas that would immediately alert you when they were perfectly ready to eat. It would even call your cell phone if you weren’t at home. The banana beeper. Unfortunately, even top scientists are daunted by the mystery of banana ripening. And, as technologically advanced as we are, we remain at the banana’s whim.
And the worst part is, sometimes the bananas themselves aren’t even sure if they’re ripe. I’ve had bananas that remain green near the stem, while the rest of the peel looks like a close up of Opie Taylor. Or sometimes the entire fruit is brown and blemished, and yet the peel remains impossibly tough as if to warn, “Don’t open me yet, I’m not ready to eat.” Those bananas are a fickle, freckled bunch.
So, how am I going to do it? How will I deduce a way to only eat bananas at their scrumptious peak of freshness? A little online research suggests refrigerating my yellow, tropical friends. But if I wanted chilled banana I’d buy…I don’t know what I’d buy, but I don’t want chilled bananas.
A little more online research indicates that I ought to separate the bananas from the bunch. Now this makes sense. I’ve always felt they were conspiring against me. Watching my every move. Planning. Plotting. Waiting for the moment when I’m asleep, out of the apartment for the day, or just have finished a large meal – then the head banana cries out to his minions to ripen instantly. And they laugh and laugh and laugh at me. Me, the big shot who purchased them from the supermarket, whom they’ve just rendered impotent with their speedy browning. Tricky bastards. But, separated, I weaken their resolve. I can even keep them in different rooms, so there’s no chance that they can communicate and synchronize their ripening. This just might work.
Of course, I could simplify matters and just buy bananas individually. If only this were socially acceptable. You almost never see someone purchasing a single banana. We are trained well to desire bunches. Do I have the strength to be the outcast who steps up to the register with a lone banana? Shall I suffer the life of a pariah for the sake of this insolent fruit?
Screw it. I’ll just start eating apples.