The Dilemma

The Desperate Man - Gustave Courbet

Smooth skin runs under the touch of my fingers as I trace the gentle curve, feeling the slight bumps, the pale hue marred with spots of brown freckles. Such imperfections only add to the aesthetics. 

A feast for the eyes.  

The sensation under my touch like the smoothness of a woman’s thigh, yet the cylindrical and oblong shape creating an obtuse phallic image despite my best intentions not to think about it. 

To delve into such metaphoric and rather absurd analysis is unintentional, and yet unavoidable for some reason. 

My fingers run the curve to the end, pinching around the stem and pulling hard. The skin splits and cracks as it breaks away from the bunch. The noise echoing about my empty kitchen.

I pause, looking at the banana in my hands; my breakfast.

“How to have it?” I mumble to myself, my eyes tracking the long yellow banana in my gasp. 

My gaze drifts out the window to the warm morning. Its barely nine o’clock and already past twenty degrees, and it is only Spring time. 

Moving to the sink my bare feet slap on the tiled floor. I lick my lips as I continue to ponder how I might consume the tasty banana. Of course I could just snap the remaining stem and tear back the skin to chomp into the fleshy goodness within. But that seems rather barbaric and boring. 

No, I have greater plans for this particular piece of fruit. It did not begin its life slowly growing in the eaves of my banana palm to simply be gulped down and forgotten about. 

I still recall the day I planted the tree. It had been hot and humid, just like today was planning to be, and I had spent a good hour digging the hole in the hot sun. 

Only a metre high the palm looked rather lonely by itself, sticking out the ground like a star-post without a fence to hold up. Its green leaves were limp and it stood rather crooked to my eye. With the dirt that surrounded the base and filled in the hole I had added certain feeding mixtures that some Bunnings chick had suggested I use. The girl had only been about sixteen and looked like she knew more about posting selfies online than gardening. But I heeded her questionable wisdom and spent half my wages on the mixture. 

The teenager turned out to have some wisdom to her words for the palm soon became strong and vigorous. Watering it most days I watched as the small and scrawny plant grew, reaching towards the sun, its leaves spreading wide like it was opening its arms to hug me. 

It was during the humid Summer I had planted it, nearing losing it to a cyclone with devastating winds. Over the Autumn it prospered as I continued to water it and feed it some more of the mixture. But then Winter came with biting frosts that turned its beautiful and full green leaves to a brown and crinkled mess. 

I can still recall the fear that gripped me when I thought I had lost my dear banana palm for good. Fortunately the winters in the northern half of Australia are not long and the spring rains gave new life to my plant. Flowers formed and relief and delight filled my days. The bees came, as well as the nectar eating birds, and the flowers soon became fruit. With impatient expectation I watched the fruit swell and grow, becoming long and thick, their green skin turning yellow as I remained on guard for fruit flies and other naughty insects that were planning on ruining my harvest. 

Then the day finally came and I took the bunch of five bananas from the tree. The smooth skin of the fruit was still mostly green, but I dared not risk the fruit flies outwitting me and turning the bananas to rotten filth. 

It had been nearly a week since the day of harvest and I pondered the long journey the banana palm and I had been on to reach this point. But as I gaze hungrily at the banana in my hand I am still at a loss as to how to eat it. 

The dilemma plagues me like a bad dream. 

I was so delighted to finally eat what I had watched grow for so many months. This moment had to be special. It was first thing I had ever grown that produced fruit. All the care and love I had given the plant, nursing it through the bitter winter and fighting off the nasty bugs that tried to eat it before me, it had all come down to this moment. This morning’s feast needed to be one I would remember for decades to come. 

My mouth watered as I continue to stare at the banana and think of the many ways I might devour it. 

“Perhaps a salad?” I wonder. 

Never have I been any good at cooking and preparing meals. I remember not even being able to make a cheeseburger at the fast food restaurant where I worked during high school. I even set fire to our kitchen once whilst trying to fry some eggs. 

But a salad is easy to do, right?

I can do that. I can pick some extras to enhance the flavour of the banana. Its easy to chop some things up and put it a bowl. If those amateurs on that chef master show on television can do it, so can I. 

“Not a salad,” I decided, my thoughts going away from that idea. 

I want something that really will make the banana the star of the dish. 

I remember a dish my mum used to do with a banana. She would cut a split along the fruit with a knife, exposing the white flesh to the heat of a grill. At the highest setting she would let the flesh go crispy and the smooth yellow skin to turn black and burnt. Putting it on a plate she would cover it in some honey before eating. 

I had never tried that particular dish. It did not appeal to me then, and certainly did not now. But what other dish can I make with a banana? 

I have no idea.

“I know,” I exclaim as the idea comes to me, a grin on my face. “Banana and yogurt go well together.”

Delight and anticipation fill my heart as I skip to the fridge and swing the door open. The cold air from within cooling my skin and taking away the growing warmth of the day. Wearing only my underpants the chilled air feels good. Almost as good as the thought of eating my banana with some vanilla yogurt. But the zephyr of cool wind brings only disappointment as my eyes search the shelves for the tub of yogurt and find nothing. 

“That’s right, I finished it yesterday morning,” I mumble and with a sigh, I close the fridge door. 

The thought of racing to the nearest shop to buy some more comes to mind. But the nearest store that sells my favourite yogurt is a five minute drive away. I want to eat my banana now. 

Besides, the shop is closed on Sundays.

Glancing to the clock on the wall a new dilemma comes to mind. It is almost time for my favourite Sunday morning show to start and I like to have my breakfast finished before it begins. 

“I could eat it later,” I say, looking thoughtfully to the banana in my hand. 

No, there is no later. 

The smooth yellow skin of the fruit almost glows in the sunlight, beckoning me to eat it now and not wait to buy some yogurt. Again my mouth waters as I think of the taste of the flesh hidden beneath the thick skin. 

Impatiently I chew down on my bottom lip, torn between eating it now and waiting. Never before have I felt such a conflict in my heart. The long wait and diligent care I put into the growth of this particular banana had finally come to fruition and I would be damned if I waited any longer to sample the fruits of my labour. 

No, this was the time to eat it.

“Of course,” I smile, the realisation coming to me. 

These long months I had spent waiting and caring had been solely about this banana, so why did I need to add anything extra to it. This was a celebration of the fruit, so any other flavours would only succeed in spoiling what I had worked so hard in accomplishing.

Beside my favourite show was about to start. 

Gripping the top of the stalk with my free hand I pinch a bit tighter at the stalks base and violently snap the erect stalk to the side. The skin breaks open and I peal the flap away to reveal the beautiful white flesh hidden within. Eagerly I unzip the other flaps of skin, my hand slightly shaking in eagerness. 

I pause and hold the banana up before my eyes. The fruit within is so different to the outside flesh, so wrinkled, almost fury. Its tasty white colour streaked with pale brown strings of fibre that I gently peal away and toss in the compost bin. 

With a smile I bring it to my mouth and wrap my lips around it as I bite into the fruit. Moist, slimy, flavoursome. 

It is firm and yet soft, easily squished between my tongue and my palette. There is hardly a need to chew, but I do, I need to savour the flavour and sensation. 

The second mouthful is delightful as the first and before I realise there is no more, the last of it just vanished down my gullet. 

I pause, running my tongue around my mouth and over my teeth. A feeling of satisfaction fills me and is accompanied by the pride of accomplishment. I had grown that banana. I had kept the palm alive so it could produce fruit. I had stopped the wildlife from revenging the crop. I was confident that I could continue to see bounty of fruit for my meals. I am not tied down to the need to buy bananas from the shop, to resolve myself to eating some old and brown fruit that had likely been kept in a cool room for a few weeks. I can eat my bananas fresh from the plant, and if I could do it with one fruit plant I could do it with another. No doubt, this time next year I could have a whole orchard of fruiting plants and never need to buy from the shops again. 

With a deep breath I toss the banana peel in the compost and wander into the living room to turn on the television. My cat wakes up from its morning slumbers as I sit down and absently scratch it around the ears, causing it to purr loudly. 

The thoughts of my bananas quickly drift from my mind as the show starts with the latest celebrity scandal. 

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