So my mom told me a story...
Growing up, my mom and her siblings would make banana bread every week.
Literally every week since the first one of them learned how to make it, they started making banana bread- lo and behold though, they liked it with walnuts and they all knew their dad hated walnuts.
So they made a special loaf of banana bread just for him every week, just for him to eat. Nobody else was allowed to eat it because that was his banana bread, baked especially for him.
So anyways, they did this once a week from middle school up until every last one of them moved out of the house (and considering there was at least 10 years difference from the oldest to the youngest, this was quite some time). So that’s like… 16 years of weekly banana bread. And he always finished it. He, without fail, ate the whole loaf of bread by himself.
That’s approximately 835 loaves of banana bread.
Skip ahead a few years…
and they’re all visiting and baking banana bread and they start making a dad’s bread and their mom comes in, “I don’t think he can handle eating one more slice of banana bread!”
“What are you talking about? He loves banana bread! He had it all the time!”
This is when my grandma, their mom, broke the news that my grandfather loathed banana bread with every fiber of his being. He just adored that his kids loved him enough to make him a special loaf of banana bread every week (and he didn’t have the heart to tell them that he couldn’t stand banana bread) and he was incredibly, utterly upset that my grandma told the kids his big secret.
My grandfather was a loving, patient, gentle man who absolutely hated banana bread but loved his kids so much more and I just wanted to share that with you guys. I think this story is just about the perfect example of the kind of person he was.