Better Living Through Banana Bread

Oct 18th, 2007 by Marilyn

We’ve had nearly five inches of rain in the last two weeks, and a river runs over the curbs, drowning out autumn. While driving to pick up Josie yesterday I called my mother-in-law, and yelled over the windshield wipers that I might as well have taken an ark.

Now I’m not suggesting we control the weather or anything, but since we moved last week, there have been curiously violent storms and the darkest, soggiest days. I’m just saying.

Here in the Victorian house-apartment we have tall, wood-framed windows that showcase the treetops night after stormy night, black shapes crashing through lightning. The whole effect is beautifully gothic, and by the second night, I think – this is like Jane Eyre.

By the third night, I realize I am not Jane. I’m the crazy woman in the attic.

It’s depressing. Just look at Cleo – she was hating it. In our old bedroom closet, she’d sleep on our shoes to hide from thunder; now she needed new corners. We were all missing everything, but this too shall pass. That new old house being built down the street has to get finished some time. Right?

At least I’m distracted by the return of school “Coffee Cart” – as always, perfect timing. And let’s be clear – I am grateful for any kitchen right now (thanks, Dan!) being “between homes,” as we say. But certain things aren’t here – my stockpile of spatulas, spoons, zesters and spreaders, a real stove, the luxury of kitchen space – oh, how the mighty have fallen.

And we’re not talking profiteroles here – just a freaking loaf of banana bread. Above, I laid out a pathetic mise en place on the tiny counter, grumbling all the way. I do have my mixer up here. You know, I didn’t take Grandma’s china…but not without my Kitchen Aid.

I’ve worked in restaurant kitchens that were closet-sized, too…but somehow that was challenging…and I got paid…and those kitchen’s did not come with a school bake sale, a pissy preteen or a hungry black lab.

So much whining. What would Chef Temkkit say?

The best thing about the oven is that it’s adorably E-Z Bake sized, and I’m sure it suited dozens of college students and their frozen pizzas just fine. Actually, some friends had graciously offered to lend me their kitchens – Pam, Leni, and Jenny all implored me to use their perfectly perfect ovens, and while on my knees scurbbing this one, I had a little mantra, “Pam-Leni-Jenny…Pam-Leni-Jenny.”

But I am stubborn, and I can bake anywhere. After I SOS’d off the grime there was a short, smoky burning-off period. Undaunted, I mixed, mashed and poured…