At this point it probably seems like I’m purposely fucking things up. I mean, how could I possibly burn a loaf of bread, twice?
Just like last time, I have to blame my EZ-Bake. Seriously, though. That’s not a cop-out. I’ll admit that I suck balls at being a “domestic goddess.” I’ve come to terms with that…kind of. But it just simply isn’t my fault that my oven is the size of a microwave and distributes heat as precisely as a blind person would fill in a color-by-numbers.
So, on to the subject of this post, and a more heartening reflection. Yesterday, I decided to bake banana bread. Not for my own purposes, but because my girlfriend’s smile is the most adorable, sparkly, lights-up-a-room smile you can imagine, and I thought that baking her something would elicit this response. (Also because I did that thing where you buy a bunch of bananas, forget that you have them and buy another bunch.)
I found a simple recipe to follow, which I expertly augmented to my liking.
Here’s what you’ll need:
• A bunch of really ripe bananas. And by “a bunch,” I mean 3 or 4.
• 1/3 c melted butter
• A handful of chocolate chips/walnuts (I had these on hand)
• 1 c sugar
• 1 egg, beaten
• 1 tsp. vanilla
• 1 tsp. baking soda
• A pinch of salt (I added a good bit since there’s so much sugar)
• 1 1/2 c all-purpose flour
Mix all of the shit together. Yep, it’s that easy. The best part is smashing the bananas—I used my hands, like a barbarian. It feels like the kind of thing you always wanted to do as a kid and still kind of want to do but can’t because you’re now an adult. I’ve seen home videos of myself as a toddler burying my fists in birthday cake. Totally indulged. But someone had to clean me…I’ll be damned if my future children ever touch anything. Maybe I’ll wrap their little hands in plastic wrap.
Bake this in a loaf pan at 350 degrees for, the recipe says, one hour.
One hour. After 45 minutes, one side of my loaf was black. Wtf? Really, I cannot take responsibility for this. It’s a fluke.
I have not tried the bread yet, but I’ll have to let you know how it tastes. But I have to admit, much like that anorexic aphorism promises, nothing tastes as good as self-pity feels.