Raw Drip

Something about fall’s cooler temperatures really brings out the baker/homemaker in me.  I’ve always loved to nest in colder weather, but the subtle smell of chimney smoke and the crispness in the air reminds me of the comforting odors of my childhood with scents of cinnamon, nuts & vanilla.  Whenever one of these moods strikes, my favorite, easy fix is Banana Nut Bread, served warm and slathered in butter.  Yummy.  Because it’s simply not good enough to eat without the added adornment of butter, I tend to avoid making Banana Nut Bread unless I’m prepared to give it away immediately for fear of consuming the entire thing in a frenzied binge, poorly concealed from my spouse. 

But last night, I developed a nagging craving for it; one of those irresistable cravings that you just know is going to haunt you until you surrender.  Valiantly, I fought it.  I rationalized, I distracted, and I bargained with myself.  Maybe it was the hectic week I’d had that made me feel I needed some culinary comfort, or maybe it was the effect of fall, but this morning I couldn’t stand it any longer; I gave in.  I sprung out of bed intent on whipping up a batch of my favorite Banana Nut Bread. 

As my Kitchenaid whisked the fragrant spices and the ripe banana into a rich golden batter, Adam and Tabitha watched intently – full of questions.  What are you making?  Why are you making it?  Why are you putting eggs in there?  Normally, pre-coffee, these kinds of incessant questions asked by really perky people would just annoy the heck out of me.  But the prospect of that warm soft salvation on a plate was worth the 7 a.m. wake-up call and all the requests for a play by play on quick bread baking.

After an agonizing hour of prep, an hour of baking and another hour of cooling, the bread was ready for serving.  I sliced into my creation and served it to the children with the required thick layer of butter. 

“Fank you, mama!,” Adam shrieked with delight.

“Yay! Bubana Butt Bread!,” Tabitha yelled with a gleeful smile. 

As they enjoyed their bread with butter slicked lips, it made me smile.  Not because I had been “fanked for the bubana butt bread” (although, that’s pretty damn cute, if you ask me), but because I had made something much more than comfort food.  I had made warm childhood memories and passed down a tradition of appreciation for the smells and the tastes of home, and surprisingly, that brought me much more comfort than a buttered slice ever could.