I Had Him Eating Out Of My Hand

BANANAS!

That was the topic of discussion at the Semi Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank on Friday. Not their penchant for polyploidy, which makes them deliciously seedless. No. Nothing science-y about bananas and their chromosomes was discussed. Just bananas, and their surprise appearance in the classroom of Jewels.

Jewels travels between Newmentia and Basementia. Now that distance is only yards instead of miles, what with the new facility housing our Basementia brethren. Still, her room is unattended part of the day. People go in there, use her implements, store stuff in her fridges, and leave messes. Jewels, for the most part, does not complain, but rather makes lemonade out of those lemons Newmentia throws at her. But lemonade was not on the agenda for the Semi Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank.

"Did you leave bananas in my room?" Jewels asked, refraining from touching somebody's arm and speaking their name to put them on the spot, as Sir Gabs-A-Lot used to do when he dined with the Think Tank.

"I didn't put any bananas in there!"

"No!"

"Uh uh."

"Not me!"

We are a defensive bunch of banana deniers. Jewel clarified. "I mean, did anybody put bananas there? Because they just appeared. And I want to know if they belong to somebody, because they're turning brown."

"Oh. They would make good banana bread! That's what I would think, if I saw a bowl of brown bananas," said Pinkie.

"Not me. I would think, 'Oh, somebody is growing fruit flies. To study eye color, and wing shape.' That's what I would think." Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has fond memories of Drosophila melanogaster from her college years. Those vermillion-peepered beauties!

"Eww!"

"Actually, I was thinking about making some banana bread with them. As long as somebody doesn't want them."

"I'd say go ahead. Nobody's coming back for them now."

So it came to pass, later that afternoon, that Mrs. HM's end of the hall took on the distinct aroma of...VINEGAR! Yeah. Distinct. In fact, as Mrs. HM walked out of her room to assume the position for hall watch, she remarked to a walker-by, "What are we doing, dying Easter eggs?" Which we were not, but apparently the custodial staff has gone green, and is using vinegar as a cleaning product each afternoon. Which is neither here nor there, but only illustrates the fact that nobody smells banana bread baking when vinegar is around.

Seventh period, here came a last-year's student through my doorway. After knocking, of course, and being invited inside. Once you have Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, her rules are tattooed on your subconscious. Which is good, really, because your subconscious is out of sight, and it won't affect your employability later in life.

"Here," she said, beaming. And handed Mrs. HM a clear plastic mini-tray that the cafeteria uses to serve nachos and cheese sauce. Only it held not nachos, but a slab of fresh banana bread, warm from the oven. It smelled heavenly.

"Thank you so much! Tell Ms. Jewel thanks, too." Even though I told her myself after school. I put that tray of warm banana bread on top of my control center, where I left it until The Pony came in after final bell. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has been trying to cut back. "Here, Pony. Here's some banana bread. Try it."

"Nyeehhh...I don't think so."

"Come on! You'll like it. It's like cake."

"Meh. Maybe...okay. But I don't like the end where it's brown."

"Here. I'll break it in half. You can eat out of the middle."

He leaned over, sniffing at the slice. I held it up so he could take a bite. At that moment, somebody walked by the door and stopped a minute, observing.

 I was caught in the act of hand-feeding The Pony. It felt so very wrong.