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I have a sordid relationship with bananas.
Most fruit I find to be a treat; a bevy of juicy, luscious candies to be consumed ravenously and then thrown aside to decompose and re-enter the lurid earth from whence they came.
Bananas, on the other hand, I find to be a chore. A matter of pure necessity: fuel provided to the body in a moment of want. A last minute default snack you grab at the deli on the way catch the train.
I had a friend in college who ate them constantly. “Nature’s power bar!” he’d rejoice, before gobbling them down in twos or threes.
More recently, a coworker developed a strange banana habit; he’d keep bushels of them on his desk, grabbing them intermittently throughout the day to curb hunger.
I, on the other hand, have a strange collection of brown bananas in my freezer; ones that I’ve bought on the run, disregarded until they’re past their prime, then attempted to preserve so as to limit my mounting guilt about food waste. “I’ll make a smoothie, or banana bread,” I tell myself–yet never do.
Sure, I’ll eat the damn things, but I won’t enjoy it.