You love sugar. I love sugar.
It never hurts to have more sugar…
“Boys, who wants a banana split?!? See how fast you can clean your rooms while I get them ready, okay?”
Man, oh man, who doesn’t love a good ol’ banana split? Indeed, Mom had found the secret to getting me and my bro, 1SkinnyJ, motivated enough to get off our elementary-school-aged duffs and actually help get our house tidied up for once.
With each Lincoln Log (TM) I gathered, in my mind I could already start feeling the juxtaposition of the textures of ice creaminess against the soft-yet-firmness of the banana as I bit into it.
I threw yet another Hot Wheels (TM) car into the toy box, and my thoughts lingered on the sensual saltiness of the chopped peanuts perfectly complementing the chocolate and strawberry sweetness of the Blue Bell (TM) frozen confections, as they exploded into fireworks of flavor as they first hit my lips and then my tongue.
And as I was finishing up picking up the last few of my oversized off-brand Lego (TM) building blocks, my imagination savored the thought of polishing off the remaining bits of whipped cream mixed with that inevitably awesome sweet syrupy muck–the by-product of any banana split done right.
Of course, there was the proverbial–and literal–“cherry on top,” which, being the best part of the whole experience, I saved for last–even in my childhood sugar-lust fantasies.
My mental pre-vouring1That, my friend, is a portmanteau of ‘pre’ and ‘devouring’. You’re welcome. of my future tasty treat perfectly ended in sync with the household task I had been charged with.
“Alright, Mom, I’m done! Now, where’s my sweet, sweet banan–“
…
“What in sweet Baby Jesus’ name is this abomination?!? Where’s my banana split?”
She just stared at me somewhat blankly, apparently unsurprised by my unpleasant surprise.
“This is your banana split. Surely you weren’t expecting something different, were you?”
In that moment, I was too embarrassed to have not known better. I had been duped and was too proud to admit it.
The fact that Mom–no-sugar-added, making-birthday-cakes-with-honey, health conscience Mom–would be offering me a concoction that involved not only Blue Bell (TM) ice cream and Maraschino (uh…TM?) cherries, but Reddi-whip (TM) whipped cream and Hershey’s (TM) chocolate syrup? That should have been a giant red flag waving in the Kansas wind.
How was I not suspicious of such an impossible offer? I knew that, apart from the bananas, we never had the raw the materials for a proper banana split on hand in our sad sucrose-less sanctuary.
At least not the kind of banana split I had oh so naively thought I was getting–you know, the real good ones that Grandma Smalls2This is hilariously not her last name. I don’t even know why I would bother to change her name… would buy for us at the Dairy Kreme (a violation of TM?) whenever we would go run errands with her in Elkhart. (Ah, Grandma Smalls: a fan of sweets, no doubt–and from whom I indubitably inherited my sweet tooth.)
No, what lay before me was…well, sure, the requisite banana was there…
…but piled high with cottage cheese, canned pineapple chunks, and generic unsalted peanuts.
And for that “cherry on top”? Oh, you better believe that did she not disappoint in her impeccable ability to disappoint…
Kretschmer (TM) wheat germ. Yes, you read that right: gosh darn, melon-farming, sock-clucking wheat germ. Who does that to their kid?!?
This trauma? This trauma was real. It scarred me for life.
So much so that now to this very day, “Banana Split” means one thing and one thing only amongst my family:
“Oh, I knew your offer sounded too good to be true. Pftt! It’s the Banana Split Incident all over again. I guess I’ll just sit here and be…”
You know who loves that crystalline crack, that sweeter-than-smack, the one, the only, the granulated sugars?
Grandma Smalls, that’s who.
And, by some stroke of luck, the house that she shared with my soft-spoken Pap-pap3Again, a ridiculous and unnecessary pseudonym… was conveniently separated from our house in Richfield by a mere cow pasture.
So whenever 1SJ and I could no longer handle our involuntarily-induced processed foods withdrawal that came along with living with Mom, we would literally just traipse across the field to Grandma’s and raid her kitchen–whether or not anybody was home.
During one of these adventures, I made a culinary discovery for the ages: you know what was better than Jif (TM) chunky peanut butter in your Roman Meal (TM) bread and Welch’s (TM) concord grape jelly PB&J sandwich?
Jif (TM) chunky peanut butter, lightly laced with a dusting of sugar, that’s what!
At first, it was just localized to the PB that I was putting on my own sandwich, but it only took a couple more Munchies-motivated food runs before the situation spiraled completely out of control. To help illustrate what went down, I’d like to enlist the help of one of my all-time favorite comic strips, the February 18th, 1981 Garfield, who will be playing the role of me:
I was a genius: by directly incorporating a few cups of sugar into the canister of Jif (TM), I was cutting out the tedious process of having to sugar-ify my PB each time. And I’m sure ol’ Sweet Tooth Grandma Smalls would thank me later for saving her the trouble as well…
“What in heaven’s name are you doing, boy?!?”
I was shocked. This was the first time in my 6 or 7 years of existence that I had ever seen Pap-pap upset in even the slightest of manners.
And now he was yelling at me, which I thought was a bit of an over-reaction.
Sure, he had just caught me red-handed lacing the new canister of Jif (TM) with the appropriate amount of sugar needed to give it that grainy crunch that I had come to crave. But was it worth the anger and wrath from an otherwise impeccably unflappable man? Naw, something wasn’t adding up.
Even though I was shocked, I still managed to fumble for a response.
“Uh…well…I know how much Grandma loves sugar, so I thought I would do her a favor and–“
“You know your grandmother is DIABETIC! Are you trying to kill her?!?”
“Oh. Sh*t. My bad, my bad…”
…
So, that’s what having diabetes was really all about, eh. Well, damn, no one bothered to pass the memo onto me.
And to think, this whole time I had thought the saying “Sugar Is The Silent Killer” was just some hyperbole that Mom would trot out to justify those sock-clucking banana splits…
*shrugs shoulders*
Welp, I guess you can consider this your weekly PSA…
Content created on: 5 November 2021 (Friday)
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