It’s easy to find my Banana Bread recipe. It’s the page in the cookbook that’s covered
with batter. It’s the recipe where I
taught my son how to use a hand mixer. As
a working mom with limited free time, each and every chance to turn a chore
into a fun activity for mom and kids was embraced. Banana Bread was a much loved activity, both
for the warm, moist bread fresh from the oven and for the warm giggly fun it
took to make it.
The kids went to a day care where the teachers practiced
Piaget’s theories of cognitive development.
They believed that children learn because they’re naturally curious. If you provide them with learning
opportunities they will naturally seek them out. No need for those ridiculous
flash cards that make children into robots and robs them of the joy of
discovery. Instead this school had lots
of hands on activities for the kids. They went on nature walks and field trips
to the lake; they painted, sang, played games and did lots of cooking. The most important thing they learned was to
love learning and also how to bake delicious bread.
The school was run by Mark and Stacy, both of whom were
former elementary school teachers. They
married, had a couple kids of their own and decided to open a school. Stacy was an art teacher and the arts and
crafts activities at the school were top notch.
I have a lovely collection of bread dough ornaments for my Christmas
tree made by the students and a whole trunk full of beautiful “happy mother’s
day cards”.
Max was one of those kids who was born old. You never knew what was going on in that
little noggin of his. He didn’t speak a
word until he was two years old. Then
suddenly during lunch he said loud and clear, “Not milk, I want apple juice.” I handed him a glass of apple juice without
thinking and then said, “Hey, Max! You
talked! You finally talked!” He looked at me a bit perplexed and said,
“Till now everything’s been fine.” He
started speaking in complete sentences without a single “Bye bye” or “night
night” along the way. His sister was
born talking; the blankets were scratchy, the lights were too bright, the
doctor’s hands were cold, and the room was a fashion disaster. Max just grinned as the doctors handed him to
his Papa and then let out huge belly laugh.
Sometimes people make the mistake of thinking that because
he seems passive that Max is a pushover.
They would be very wrong. Max has
always known what he wanted and knows how to go after it. He showed us all that when he was only five
and competed in the town’s annual “Turkey Trot”. Every Thanksgiving, the kids are divided by
age groups and run a foot race for prizes.
First prize is a 20 pound turkey; second prize is a pumpkin pie. He was way out in front of all the other kids
when he suddenly stopped just short of the finish line. He waited until another boy crossed the line,
then he stepped over. We were all
baffled and ran over to him. I said,
“Max, what happened? How come you let
the other kid win?” He tilted his head
to the side, gave me the standard perplexed Max face and said, “I didn’t let
him win, I don’t like turkey, I wanted the pie!” And we did have some delicious pumpkin
pie.
A few years later, when Max was in his second year of little
league, he demonstrated once again that he knew his own mind. The first year he
had learned a lot, made lots of friends and had a good time. He ended the year
a decent player. But this year he had a
horrid coach, who seemed to think he was a Marine Corps drill sergeant and not
a coach for little kids. He yelled all
the time but what’s worse, he didn’t know what he was doing. Max had been unable to connect with the ball
even once. He was being called “strike
out” by his own team.
I watched as the coach showed Max the “batting stance”. Max was a little guy for his age and the
coach had marked out the spots for the kids to put their feet. When Max tried the position his legs were so
far apart that he was off balance. The
way he had Max grip the bat he had no control.
Max stood there while this grown man humiliated him in front of the
other kids. I watched, knowing that the only thing worse than having the coach
yell at you in front of the team was having your mom intervene. He could commiserate with the other kids
about the mean coach but he’d never live down “mama’s boy.” I planted my feet firmly in the dirt.
You see, I love baseball and as a kid I played softball. I couldn’t hit, pitch or even catch a ball to
save my life but I loved trying. You don’t have to be a star athlete to play; you
just need to love the game. Even if it
meant all I did was keep score or bring the snacks, at least I was on the
team. When I was growing up that was the
rational for teaching sports: learning teamwork and sportsmanship. It wasn’t
about wining – it was about learning to play a good game. Not so now. When I
see parents bringing street fights onto the athletic field I want to make the
parents run laps.
Max was miserable and I wasn’t sure what to do. The next day at work I I asked a friend who coached women’s softball
what he thought. He told me to let him
quit, just walk away. No big deal. But
it was a big deal. If the first time Max
tried something he failed and quit he would have learned quitting and not
teamwork or sportsmanship. I asked Max
if he wanted to quit. He wasn’t ready to
give up yet but he hated being yelled at.
I offered my services.
A couple of days a week Max and I would go out back and
practice. I showed him how I hold a bat,
how to stand and we practiced hitting the ball.
It’s not textbook but it works for me and it worked for Max. Before the next game I took the coach aside
and told him that I had been working with Max on his hitting. I told him his
techniques were too harsh for kids this young. He gave me the “stupid woman”
look.
Max played better that day and the next. He continued to improve and his fielding
skills improved as well. Then one day,
it was the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, score tied, two outs and Max is up
to bat. He walked up to the plate like
he owned it, got comfy and then hit a grand slam home run. As I watched him clear the bases I had dreams
of Little League Heaven. Of being the
mom on the bench that everyone admired.
I could hear myself say, “Oh he’s just a natural. Thanks so much. Oh your son is very good too.” I saw a series of summer afternoons spent in
the bleachers cheering and team pizza parties.
When Max cleared home plate his teammates surrounded him cheering and
chanting his name.
On the way home Max turned to me and calmly said, “Well,
that’s done. No more Little
League.” I was flabbergasted. I actually stopped the car and asked what he
meant. He explained that he had mastered
baseball and now he was done. I admit I
prodded him a bit, who wouldn’t want to be the mom of the baseball star. But he wasn’t interested. He only wanted to
master the game and he’d done that. He
had done what I wanted, he didn’t give up but stuck it out till he won.
Now, back to the bread, one day we were making the banana
bread and Max asked if he could do the mixing.
I showed him how to hold the mixer and which button to push. I made a point of telling him that you should
never lift the mixer out of the bowl unless you turn it off first. Of course that was a challenge to my curious
son and he just had to see for himself. Max
pulled the mixer out and it whirred around and threw batter everywhere! He was so fascinated by the event that he
couldn’t stop. Batter covered the walls,
cabinets, table and both of us. After
cleaning up we barely had enough to make one loaf of bread.
Later as the bread was baking I noticed there was still batter
on the page of the cookbook. I stopped
mid wipe. To this day I’m not sure
why. But whenever you want to make
banana bread, it opens automatically to that page and I always giggle.
Max didn’t speak till he had something to say. He stopped in time to win the prize he
chose. Sometimes people mistake his
quiet manner for passivity. It’s a
mistake they only make once. He knows
exactly what he wants and won’t settle till he gets it.
The secret to really moist sweet banana bread is really ripe
bananas. I mean black nearly liquid
bananas. Some people get anxious and use
unripe bananas. The bread tastes
unripe. Some people let others decide
what’s most important, what takes first prize.
Not my Max. He’s patient and
wise. He knows how important it is to
just let it ripen and he knows how to wait for what he wants.
1 3/4 cups sifted flour 1/3 cup shortening (I use
butter)
2 teasp baking powder 2/3 cup
sugar
1/4 teasp baking soda 2 eggs
unbeaten
1/2 teasp salt
1 cup mashed ripe bananas (2or 3)
Start heating oven at 350 degrees and grease a 9x5x3 loaf
pan. Sift flour, baking powder, baking
soda, and salt. With electric mixer at
medium speed (or with a spoon) thoroughly mix butter with sugar, then add eggs,
until VERY LIGHT AND FLUFFY - about four minutes. Then at low speed, beat in flour mixture
alternating with bananas just unit smooth.
Turn into pan. Bake 1 hour or
until cake tester inserted in center comes out clean. Cool in pan 10 minutes. Don't wait till the morning. Eat
bread.
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