The smell of rotten bananas crinkles my nose. The browning bananas are barely considered a fruit. I squish the brown skin with my finger, leaving an indent.

“Mom! Are you making banana bread?” I yell, my voice echoing. She appears from the living room with a mischievous smile.
“You know it, sister. Put the bananas in the mixture and beat it,” she say, disappearing from sight. I sigh, but grab the beater. The bowl of ingredients sits before me eagerly, the color of soggy oatmeal.

I plug in the beater and brace myself. It springs to life with a whir. I rip the peel off a banana and toss it in the bowl. The banana is lost in the creamy mixture. I already feel the effects of the beater on my arm. My muscles scream to surrender from the strain of the thick mixture. However, my mom gave me a job to do. I add the other bananas. My arm begs liberation from the beater’s merciless strain.

“Hey, Mom, can you look at this?”

She appears once again, leaning over my shoulder.

“Looks good, J. I’ll put in the the pan.” Her face radiates approval. I grin and head to the living room.

An hour later, three chimes ring. I pop from the couch and head to the kitchen. Grabbing the oven mits, I stick my hands into the oven, gripping the pan. Crispy tinfoil covers the bread, hiding it’s golden brown exterior. That doesn’t stop the bear’s rise from his cave.

“Is that banana bread?” My dad emerges from the basement.

My mom nods and peels away the tinfoil, revealing the bread. The banana hits us first, an overwhelming scent. My dad grabs the knife. In a few days, the bread will be no more.