Banana-Oat Fritters
Mashed two bananas with oat flour and salt. Consistency: not runny, not stiff—somewhere between cookie dough and mashed potato. Pan-fried in olive oil and butter.
~50 kcal/fritter, if AI is to be trusted.
I'm cataloguing my recipes for Keith. The one person growing up on my experiments. No one taught me to cook. I refuse to follow recipes for reasons I can't explain. What I make probably wouldn't please ninety-nine percent of people. But Keith eats what I make. Maybe someday he'll wonder what his mother's hands reached for when she had time. What she was thinking while she stood at the stove. What she was practicing when she thought she was just making breakfast. Whether she ever knew what she was doing, or if she was just guessing the whole time.
The bananas had been there for three days. I ate them with yogurt for breakfast. Keith had his with Eggo waffles. My mother had sent a bunch home because my uncle gave her too many. She was afraid they'd rot. When I came through the door that afternoon, there was my food delivery waiting. Another bunch.
Thursday morning. Keith had a school holiday. I stood in the kitchen and looked at the bananas going soft on the counter. My mother used to make something with overripe bananas. I didn't remember the exact recipe. Besides, it’s was too sugary, and diabetes is a familial gift. I've never followed recipes properly. Some protest I can't explain.
I mashed the bananas chunky. Added oat flour until it felt right. Salt. My hand went to the olive oil, then the butter dish. Both into the pan. My mother would have used vegetable oil. Maybe ghee. I didn't think about it until after. Coconut oil might have been a delicious touch of flavour.
The fritters sizzled. Keith appeared. He ate six, maybe seven. Didn't say anything. Then he was gone. Doing whatever it is that teenaged boys do.
I stood there with the pan still warm. My mother made these because waste wasn't an option. I made them because I had time. Because the bananas were there. Because my hands remembered something I'd never been taught.
The school holiday gave me a Thursday that didn't rush. In that space, I reached for olive oil and butter instead of what my mother would have used. I stripped everything down. Just banana, flour, salt. Nothing like what she made. Somehow exactly like it.
Is this inheritance? This knowing and changing at the same time?
I'm not sure what I was making. Not fritters, no. Something else I can't name yet. We all need to eat. But maybe that's it? The ordinariness. The necessity. Making breakfast because it was Thursday morning and my son was home and hungry.
