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I started this because, of all things, I wanted to write something about banana pancakes. I don't even know if this is going to go anywhere, but I just thought I would I put it out there and get some feedback. Thanks. “Uh-oh,” she said walking into the kitchen. “What?” the inflection in Tom’s voice said; don’t bother me. “What’s wrong?” “What makes you thing something is wrong?” He slammed the cupboard door harder than he had intended and winced at the loud bang. Because you are making banana…” she trailed off trying to peek at the ingredients he had gathered on the counter. “-bread,” he finished for her. “Banana bread.” “So why do you think anything is wrong?” “Because, since Mom died, that is the only time you make banana anything.” “Bullshit, I make banana pancakes every Sunday.” “You do?” “We always have banana pancakes on Sunday morning.” “I usually have too much of a hangover to eat breakfast on Sunday. In fact, I don’t usually get up until Monday.” He knew this was all too true about his sister. “You are missing a great day. Sunday morning is the best. It is quiet and everything, just seems so, relaxed,” he explained. “You are such an old man,” she folded her arms and smirked at you younger brother. “Fuck you,” he retorted as he started to mash bananas with a fork in a soup bowl. Mashing bananas was one of the first tasks that he helped his mother with in the kitchen. “What else do you do on Sundays?” “I don’t know,” he thought about it. He loved that they got the New York Times on Sunday. “I read the Times, go for a walk . . . help out around the house,” he paused, “Fuck! I am an old man!” “Yep, pretty much,” his sister said. “I hate you.” He said the words, but it wasn’t true. “What are other seventeen year old boys doing on a Sunday?” she asked. “I don’t know. Going to church?” She snorted in laughter. “No. You are such the definition of dork.” He didn’t say anything. “No, they are hanging out with friends, riding skateboards, smoking weed and running from the cops.” “Um, not everyone is a juvenile delinquent like you. Some of us are, you know, normal.” “I am over twenty-one now, so I will have you know I am now an adult delinquent. And, yeah, you are normal if making banana soufflé, listening to NPR and reading Jane Austen were considered normal for anyone under, I don’t know, let’s say – Fifty!” “I like NPR,” he defended himself, “and you like my cooking . . . and what’s wrong with Jane Austen?” He was flustered. “Nothing if you are a Girl Scout den mother.” “Shut up.” He put down the dish of bananas he had over mashed into the consistency of soup. They were worthless for his banana bread now. He sat down at the kitchen table with his back to his sister. “Is there coffee?” “In the pot, I just made it.” “Ah, I love you.” She poured two cups of coffee. One she set in front of her troubled brother, she put milk and sugar in hers and sat down next to him. “You know, I really do love you,” she said over the rim of her cup. He toyed with his cup, “Yeah, well that makes one and you don’t count.” “So, that is what has you down, love.” “No,” he responded too quickly and forcefully. “Remember that time when Mom put cayenne pepper on the chicken instead of paprika?” she asked out the blue. His mind’s eye immediately turned back the clock and he was sitting at the same table, a drumstick already poised at his lips when his mother let out a shriek. “Oh my god, that is the only time I ever saw her drink straight out a milk carton,” he laughed. “Yeah, you were ready to just chow down on that chicken when she snatched it away from you and Dad had to be mister macho and prove that he could eat it.” “I heard him groaning in the bathroom the next morning,” he completed the memory with another laugh. “So, who is this person that has you making banana bread?” she asked out of nowhere. “Ha! I am not that easy,” he gloat over his coffee, “besides, it doesn’t matter, it has to be unrequited love.” “God, you are reading too many eighteenth century romance novels. Why does it have to be unrequited love?” “It just does. It’s not like we even really know each other.” “Well, yeah it will remain a great unexplored love if you don’t at least introduce yourself to him.” His mouth dropped open and his eyes went wide. “Oh my god!” his sister shrieked in glee, “I wish I had a picture of you right now. That look is so priceless. After that reaction I guess there is no denying it now.” “Wait, yes – no . . . yes I can . . . fuck!”