Growing up, I never showed much interest in anything domestic. Baking, coking, sewing, (don't get me started on cleaning), and the like were never anything to tickle my fancy. And the fact that I was married at such a young age, the skills were more developed on the fly as needed. My husband taught me how to cook and my mother taught me how to sew when I finally asked her to help me sew a dress for my young daughter.
Of all the domestic areas, I did seem to progress well at cooking. I have surpassed my husband by far on everyday cooking - he still is much superior to me with the large meats. Need a turkey or ham, ask the man. Need an amazing pot of chili or even a tasty batch of gravy, I'm your girl. But recipes? Please. I rarely use one.
Due to my affinity against measurements and menial suggestions for nonsense like time and temp - BAKING was NOT going to work for my lifestyle of spontaneous freedom-dumping and tasting until it's just right. If it didn't come pre-mixed in a, "Just add _____." format, it never touched the bowl, let alone the oven. So between my inexperienced youth and my general disregard for exact science, I never had the wherewithal to ask for recipes. Ever.
So here I am this week, with perfectly peaked bananas, a dash of nostalgia, and a pinch of motivation. I group messaged a several of my first cousins asking if any of them had acquired the secret potion I so suddenly desired. And behold! By the end of the day I had received a picture of the recipe in Grandma's very own handwriting. *swoon*
I glanced over the requirements and I had everything needed - except a clean kitchen to work in, go figure. So my bananas would have to wait. As I implied earlier, I don't even like to discuss cleaning, let alone actually accomplishing it, so I was hoping my motivation would kick in before my beautiful bananas began to rot. As luck would have it, the hubbs came home with all the motivation I would need. He started sorting and tossing and hanging and dusting and moving and sweeping and washing and I followed him around pretending to look busy until the house was clean! GO ME! Then, he made dinner while I was out running errands. *uberswoon*
With dirt and dinner behind us, I decided to break out the mixing bowls and get to work. I was happy that my daughter wanted to help. We were able to experience her great-grandma's banana puffs together. There we were measuring and mixing, checking and rechecking the cursive laden lines, and suddenly I was flashbacking uncontrollably. I was almost dizzy. I placed my face just above the batter bowl, took a long whiff, whipped my head up and exclaimed, "This smells just like my grandmother's house!" The experience only intensified as the baking continued.
I was happy to revive this pleasant, aromatic memory. Too often some weird odor* that left a bad taste in my mouth is what comes to mind first when I think of how Grandma's house smelled. I have yet to figure out whatever it was, but I hate to admit that it has plagued my memory - until now! Now I have the sweet, sticky smell of banana puffs any time I want to recall my sweet (and equally sticky) childhood at Grandma Naomi's house. *It has come to my attention that not all my cousins recall this awkard and slightly rancid aroma, so I am very happy for them and wish them the best, thankfull I can now share in the joy of a more pleasant sensory remembrance.
At last, the baking was complete, the puffs were cooling, and the mess had been cleared. Now it was time to taste. Had I done it right? Would they be all I had remembered? Had I over-glorified these mini cakes into something that would ultimately let me down in the dark light of reality? The moment of truth came as I grasped one lone puff between my thumb and forefinger, feeling the sticky sugar topping on the warm crust, smelling the sweet banana infused goodness, and finally tasting....
Yes.
I had done it. Perfection. Instant joy. Mmmm Hmmm.
