I’ve discovered a scientific anomaly in my kitchen. A time-dilation field. It’s the only explanation I can come up with for why when I remove a banana from the basket, within an hour it has cycled through colors like autumn leaves.
I like my bananas green. Nice and firm, not too ripe, and definitely unbruised. This morning when I left the house, I had a green banana in hand. Hours later, it’s brown. I can’t figure it out. Am I severing the tenuous bonds of fairy magic when I remove the banana from its bunched brethren? At first I thought it was my own fumbling, stupid fingers, tossing the fruit cavalierly into my bag without regard for its feelings, leaving it bruised, possibly forlorn. But I rectified that behavior, transporting it in the cradle of my palm from destination to destination. And still my fruit betrays me. What possible steps do I have left to take, I wonder? Wrap it in silk, nestle it in folds of secure packing peanuts? Pray to the banana gods (possibly with human sacrifice)? Never eat bananas again?
Clearly, I need to enroll in grad school and find a solution to extend the bubble for transport, thus preserving the proverbial shelf life of my fruit. Or else my daily potassium intake is doomed.
