I’ve lost all respect for the banana.

Used to be, a banana was the reliable snack. Given the proper level of ripeness–not too, in other words–eating one could be a nearly sublime experience, at once virtuous and sensuous. About how many things can that be said? Other than, perhaps, Downton Abbey…

I remember being told by an extremely drunk frat boy, many years ago, that the secret to life was the banana. In retrospect, of course, it seems clear that he was just trying to get into my pants. But at the time I was insensible to such subtleties. I thought he meant it. About the fruit, that is. And it seemed possible he was right. Still, he didn’t get laid. By me, at least. And, given his level of inebriation at the time, I think it’s safe to assume his banana wasn’t up to the task regardless of what chiquita was involved.

But goodness. We’ve waxed scandalous. Back to the subject. Bananas have changed. Yes, I know. We’ve all read the articles. The “banana blight” that will destroy our favorite kind of banana (the Cavendish) is coming. Well, fuck that. I say it’s here. Because bananas these days? They suck. They’re good for nothing more than banana bread. Of which we eat quite a bit these days. Because no one in this house–including our wee fruitarian–will touch them. So there they sit on the counter, browning and forlorn, drawing fruit flies out of their winter hibernation, making my entire kitchen look pathetic and unloved. I hate them. And please don’t tell me to freeze them and put them in a smoothie. I’m so over smoothies. The next one I see I’m going to knock down, kale, chia seeds, flax oil, and all. Plus, have you ever tried peeling a frozen banana? I almost cut my finger off.

I’m moving on. I’m going to explore the star fruit. If anything is the secret to life, it’s gotta be that.