A tale of trial, triumph, and the horrors of a humid dorm room.
It was a sunny Wednesday afternoon. My classes were finished for the day, so I went to my East Campus suite to decompress. As I took off my cropped shirt and jeans, and sighed, an enticing idea snuck its way into my brain: making banana bread! Even the thought of tasting a sweet, moist loaf of banana bread made my fried neurons fire, causing me to salivate. Oh, how I began to long for the deliciously delightful bread of bananas, nuts, and chocolate!
Determined to treat myself, I assembled the ingredients, which I conveniently had on hand, gathered the appropriate cookware, and grabbed the locked box that I keep hidden in a winter coat under my bed. In that box, among other unmentionable things, was a cookbook from my grandmother containing her sacred recipes. Of course, I cannot share such a secret, for they are private.
I am almost sorry for consciously choosing to not make the world better.
Following her meticulous steps, I chopped the ingredients, mixed the batter, and baked it. The smell of the finished loaf of banana bread filled the whole suite: it went down the black stairs and under the doors of my suitemates, revealing to them that an object from Heaven itself had been graciously placed into their proximity. In a way, this was like Paul Revere’s Midnight Ride, if it was turned into a typical book-to-movie adaptation: completely changed from the source material yet somehow endearing and topical.
But back to the point: once it cooled, we ate half of the banana bread. The rest, I decided, would be saved—whether that meant it would be for my gremlin alter-ego or a study snack later in the week was anyone’s guess. I took a roll of tinfoil from out of one of the kitchen cabinets, tore a layer of said tinfoil, and put it on top of my pan of banana bread. I then grabbed the glass pan and brought it to my room, where I placed it next to my potted succulent on the windowsill adjacent to my bed. Though a masochist, being tortured by the smell would have simply been too much, so I decided to open the window with the intent that I would not be teased continuously by the wonderfully alluring scent.
Time passed as I studied and read the seemingly endless amount of pages that were assigned for my classes the next day. Though it was only 10 pm, I was out of energy, which led me to, in a manner some may detail as zombie-like, slowly walk towards my bed and lay on top of it. Sleep took control, and I essentially passed out.
When I awoke, two hours earlier than usual, I felt overwhelmingly perceptive and meditative. I lifted my head, and my eyes instantly darted towards the loaf. It sat there, merely waiting for its final moments to manifest. After a battle with my inner self, I got up. I approached the window and closed it in order to keep the cold and humid air out. But, being so near the bread, it tortured me! It seemed to call out to me; a desire to be devoured—to be enjoyed for what it was—revealed itself.
I could not resist: it was practically begging to be eaten! I had the time, so I ripped off the tinfoil and feasted. My fingernails tore into the bread like the claws of a savage animal, and I shoved piece after piece into my mouth. Crumbs fell onto the ground and my fingers became stained a rich brown, but those mattered not. I had an insatiable appetite and had not the time to worry about such trivial details.
Once my initial frenzy subsided, though, I noticed a peculiar thing: my beautiful banana bread had on it a sort of colorful fuzz.
Banana bread via Wikimedia Commons