Today, because of some manky bananas, my day was extremely exciting.
Next time I open my fridge and see a couple of black bananas, I will just chuck them in the bin.
I looked at the bananas and thought how they were perfect for banana bread. I have an oven, and I have successfully made banana bread in the past. A light was persistently flickering in my brain and gradually grew brighter.
After spending a couple of hours writing a friend’s CV (why am I always writing other people’s CVs and essays and letters? I guess I just love the gratitude), I was in the mood to MAKE something. I decided I would head out to the Kotte Road Arpico (the Sri Lankan equivalent of Carrefour, R.P.Co, which is in easier to pronounce than Arpico, but never mind). It took me a couple of hours to crawl over the entire store and locate various things for baking and also for making. I came home, put on some dancing-singing-wiggling music, and cleaned my kitchen in my underwear, so as to start in a suitably responsible fashion.
I’m so glad I took a picture as something to remember it by…
I got to work approximating a banana bread recipe. Actually I was trying to work off two different recipes simultaneously, and making conversions and substitutions. I call this patchwork baking. Frankenstein Baking. Then I dropped a half-cup of melted butter EVERYWHERE over my nice clean kitchen. I don’t think it will ever come out of the wooden doors. The Frankenstein baking equivalent of blood everywhere…
I paused to throw my half-ready batter in the fridge to protect it from the ants that swarm every crumb I drop, cleaned up as best I could, purchased more butter, melted it and without dropping it, added it to my batter, eventually reaching the stage of transferring it to the cupcake tins. It was more like cement than batter but I soldiered on, determined to make these bloody muffins.
It wasn’t until they were in the oven that I noticed I hadn’t put in the eggs or the vanilla essence, although some recipes didn’t seem to care. I certainly didn’t by now. They did eventually start to rise and to smell like bananas, and by the time they came out of the oven they were slightly appetising I suppose. I ate two. I guess that’s a success?
Then I made this dramatic recreation of the scene, aka a plasti-scene (arf arf arf).
Then I went for a 1-hour run (it would have been longer but the bloody treadmill screamed STOPPPPP!!! at 60 minutes and switched itself off, which always annoys the frick out of me). Now it’s evening and I guess I have achieved a fair amount for a Sunday.
It’s funny; I have been through this before (not the bananas and butter adventures; this burst of manic activity). I know that I use Yaz to treat what some people have foolishly diagnosed as bipolar disorder but I prefer to think of as a “quirky personality”. Every time I go off Yaz, I am subjected to a week or so of being absolutely raw and angry. Then I adjust and discover this new, happy, energetic (*cough cough* manic) me. I decide to stay off the pill and be ME MY REAL SELF. I prance around congratulating myself and my hippy friends tell me I’m right to stay away from those awful chemical hormones. But then it keeps building; I go through a couple of cycles and my endometriosis makes life misery for me, hormones cause me to live every minor event as an extreme, life-impacting experience. I reach a breaking point (generally involving screaming at my boss/boyfriend or smashing something) and realise I need to go back on the pill. And then it all quietens down again and I feel safe and protected from the world once more.
It’s always a difficult choice. Yaz has many benefits and I don’t plan to stop taking it… but I’m always torn when I get these glimpses of the “real me” and think how much fun she has. Of course, by the time I go back onto Yaz, I’m very much sick of the crazy “real me” and I am relieved to escape her…