in response to the "why you know so much about everything" post, i would like to inquire about the aforementioned banana famine
Ah, yes, the great Banana Famine. Dark, dark days indeed. Gather round my children, I am going to tell you a story of great tragedy.
Eons back, in a strange far away land, in a world now long gone (circa 1950), the Gros Michel reigned supreme. It was the one Banana to rule All bananas. Gros Michel (literally Fat Michael in French, also known as “Big Mike”) was the main banana cultivar grown in Central America and sold around the globe. A noble specimen, it’s thick peel and dense bunches made it resilient, easy to ship, and yes also fat. Look. Look at it. This banana is thiiiiiiiicc
hard to find good photos. it would have also resembled the goldfinger banana. looooook et it, it so thicc
And all was well and good and peaceful.
Everything changed when the Panama disease attacked.
Ah, the Panama disease. The great banana plague. The Banana Blight, if you will. Songs were written in elegy to the terrible destruction it wrought. Like, actually. Here’s the “Yes we have no bananas” song:
It was Chaos.
Vast tracts of plantation banana trees, noble warriors, slaughtered, cut down in their prime. Ah! the grief. Ah! the loss.
But, amid the havoc of what wikipedia and I refer to as the Gros Michel Devastation Era, an unlikely hero arose. You know it as simply a humble banana. But our hero has a name:
cavendish, it’s named cavendish.
The Cavendish banana, a cultivar that had been mass produced since the turn of the century, but only just then got it’s Time to Shine. For whatever reason, Cavendish bananas grew just fine in the same Panama disease-ridden soil that destroyed Gros Michel trees. So yeah, we planted them, fought the blight, won the war, got bananas back.
But every war has casualties.
Never again were bananas so tasty. Never again, were bananas so thicc.
I warned you this was the story of a tragedy. A moment of silence for our fallen comrade, please. Raise your wands to our late, great hero, Gros Michel.
(You can still get em in some places tho. Or like hybrids? idk. )
And kiddies, that’s the story of the banana famine as i know it.
BANANAS HAD SEEDS HOLY SHIT LOOK AT THIS
LOOK AT IT
bananas were cultivated over time to be seedless.
Bananas were deboned. dwell on that.
feels so wrong but so good
cavendish bananas may or may not be dying. We may or may not see the dark days of plague descend again. idk, look it up.
There’s a story (not proven) that the reason artificial banana flavor tastes weird is b/c it was based on the flavor of the Gros Michel. If so, it might be cause Fat Mike had a stronger taste (due to higher levels of isoamyl acetate). idk.
the “Yes we have no bananas” song was written in 1922 during an earlier outbreak. src. like any good plague, panama disease has a history of hovering over it’s fearful victims, sometimes for years, before striking the final blow.
ripsara + you make me happy (oR if you want, baker au)
guess what you get BOTH in one. party
She is, as always, a tangle of pale blonde hair and a splatter of freckles. Her hands are combing through her purse as she swears under her breath, telling him, “I had five dollars like, two seconds ago, you know me. It’s just in here somewhere-”
“Miss Lance,” Rip says, quietly, his fingers pressing indents into the folded over seal of the white paper bag. “It’s- It’s alright.”
“Sara, English,” she corrects, not looking up from her bag. “We’re not at the four seasons, and I told you about my dog’s bladder problems. We’re like, friends sort of?”
“Well then,” Rip says, holding out the bag. “Take this. And just- Don’t forget your money next time.”
“Shut up,” Sara says, looking to him. “Rip Hunter, shut the fuck up.”
His cheeks are horribly hot, the bag feeling incredibly heavy. “I- Um- I-”
“You can’t do this,” she says. “It’s your bakery, and if I don’t pay you you’ll basically go out of business.”
“That’s not-” He wrinkles his nose. “We’re doing alright, Sara. Really. I can… afford this.”
She only casually nips at her lip before seizing the bag from him, peeling the tape back and reaching in. She pulls out the blondie, what he always gives her, what she mistakes for flirting and if he were smarter probably would be. The bar rests between her teeth as she crumples the bag and tosses it, aiming for the garbage behind him.
Without pretense she pulls the bar from her mouth and splits it in half, little crumbs of coconut falling onto her coat. “Here,” she says.
“It’s yours,” he says.
“It’s what’s fair,” Sara says. “I’ve been doing this thing where I actually like, I don’t know. Treat people like people and get out of my own head, and it’s not the easiest thing for me so maybe take this half of our blondie, maybe?”
He eyes it, letting out a sigh. “If I take it, will it make you happy?”
“You make me happy, idiot,” Sara says, like he’s been a fool this whole time for not realizing it.
“Oh,” he says.
“We could Lady and the Tramp it,” Sara says. “I’ll put it in my mouth, and then you’ll try to take it from my mouth, and-”
Rip quickly takes his half. “This is fine, thank you.”
She grins at him, all victory and no shame.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he says, taking a mouse’s bite. “It’s just a pastry.”
She leans onto the counter, getting her arms and elbows all over his glass. “Anything else I can convince you to give me?” she asks.
He wills himself to vanish into a cloud of flour and fondant, but no such thing happens. “I don’t-” He looks around. “I could make you a cup of tea.”
“Isn’t that like, a marriage proposal where you’re from?” she asks.
“Good Lord,” Rip responds, never having been so acutely uncomfortable in his life. “I should hope not.”