Bananas are a great fruit. They taste good and are good for you. I once ate a kilo of bananas while stuck in traffic and then had a spectacularly satisfying nap (I was a passenger). Having nothing but bananas in my stomach was a wonderful, refreshing feeling that I hope to repeat in the future. You don’t have to wash bananas before you eat them, they are ready to go. They are great with other fruits like the classic strawberry-banana marriage in addition to on their own, but you can also get a little crazy and have them with something like a kiwi and it will still be an absolute pleasure. They go well with other foods like chocolate and they taste fabulous fried and/or with ice cream. The possibilities are numerous.
Which is why when I am hungry and I want nothing more than to bury my face in the simultaneously subtle and potent flavors of a fresh banana and savor its sweetness, softness and coolness, this glorious nectar of the gods gets totally fucked when disrupted by a chalky, rough, slimy, tasteless banana string, totally violating and adulterating the fruit, and shattering the potential state of ecstasy it could have rendered. Like Julius Caesar’s ambition, Othello’s jealousy, Barack Obama’s middle name, the string is the banana’s fatal heroic flaw, the Achilles heel, the tragic breakdown of an otherwise meaningful experience.
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