Banana Pudding

“Papa’s making banana pudding.”

My cousin whirls into the back room, shouting. Everything pauses as all the children realize what has been said. Papa is known for three things: his cigarettes, his quiet demeanor, and having the best banana pudding in all of Ohio. Little bellies can barely contain themselves. We’re too young to comprehend how sick Papa is. All we understand is that he’s cooking. Our mouths begin to water as we pile out of the room and rush to the kitchen in hopes of getting the mixing bowl to devour. Excitement wells within my ten-year-old heart.

My little brother, Adrian, is the first to speak.

“Papa?” his squeaky voice trying its best to sound like an innocent toddler.

“Yeah?” Papa wheezes.

Cancer is what they call it.

Cancer made Papa’s once-grouchy voice a whisper. Cancer made Papa bedridden. Remission made him well enough to cook. His lean body reduced to a walking skeleton in the kitchen, breezed around the room with such an ease that I had not seen in quite some time. There is life in this room. Crowding around our Papa, we eagerly awaited a taste of the mixing bowl.

“Papa, when you’re done with that bowl, can I have it?” There’s hope in Adrian’s eyes as he glares the mixing bowl down.

“Will you share?” A smile playing on Papa’s lips.

He already knew the answer to his question.

“Yeah!” replies Adrian, all too eager to get his hands on the bowl.

“You’re gonna share between all of you? Once I pour the mix into the pan, there won’t be much left.”

Realization hits the eight of us.

“Oh, man! I shoulda kept my mouth shut!” exclaims Randy as he looks at the bowl longingly.

He has a point. If he hadn’t come barreling into the back room, he could have had the mixing bowl all to himself. His foolish child excitement betrayed him.

“Looks like none of you will get it. Now go on. Go back to the room and play, and let me finish,” he says as he shoos us out.

I linger behind, my stomach set on getting something.

“Papa, I’m hungry,” I say, as I sit on one of the kitchen chairs.

His back is to me as he chops more bananas.

“Oh yeah? What do you want me to do about it?” he turns, his face breaking into a grin, as two pieces of banana lay on his eyes.

I burst into a fit of giggles. “Is that how you make banana pudding?”

“Wanna learn?” he says, taking the bananas off his eyes and popping them into his mouth.

I walk over, eyeing all the food in front of me. I wanted it all.

“Do you think you can cut these?” he says, gesturing to the bananas. I nod my reply. “Good, here you go.”

We go to work finishing the first banana pudding. His humming is the background music as I slice the banana and he works on the crust. When we finish the first banana pudding, he gestures toward the mixing bowl.

“I think you’ve earned it. Just don’t tell your cousins,” he says as he hands me the bowl.

I gleefully take the bowl and decide under the table is where I will hide and inhale my well-earned snack. Banana pudding mix paints my face as I put my head in the bowl and use my tongue as my spoon.

“Here,” Papa says, winking at me as he hands me the spoon he used to mix the banana pudding.

“Thanks, Papa,” I say, taking it as I blissfully staring into his eyes as they sparkled back at me.

From my spot on the floor under the kitchen table, I watch my Papa’s feet dance around the kitchen, making the last banana pudding.

I didn’t know what stage-three lung cancer meant. I thought he had longer before it would become serious. After all, there were seven other stages, not four, right? So, in the grand scheme of things, three didn’t seem like a big deal.

How could I have known the gravity of cancer?

I was a child.

I would tell my classmates that my grandfather had cancer as easily as I would tell them that I got to stay up past my bedtime the night before. At one point, one of my classmates told me that his dog had cancer, so he understood how I felt. My absentminded self-asked how his dog was, which was met with a quiet, “He didn’t make it.”

It wasn’t until middle school when the cancer came back, stage four this time, that I would begin to grasp what was happening. My mom started going to church, praying for more time with her dad. Each family visit I watched as everyone hugged Papa just a little tighter and a little longer trying to anchor him to that moment. I started going to church too, thinking if I prayed hard enough and was a good person, God would spare my grandfather. As months passed and he worsened, I knew there was nothing I could do to stop it. My family remained optimistic, but it was hard to see the bright side.

For the next two years, family cookouts lacked Papa’s banana pudding because he was too sick to make it. Then they lacked banana pudding because it was too painful a reminder of what was missing. Then family cookouts just stopped happening altogether. It seemed that Papa was the glue that brought us together multiple times a year.

Mama and Papa’s house stored too many memories, no one could bring themselves to visit, so we moved my grandmother closer. She reluctantly agreed to move away from her husband’s resting place, and after some time, family gatherings began to occur at Mama’s new condo. Yet, it still felt like we had to meet together every once in a while, instead of wanting to. It was my uncle who suggested we do another family cookout back in Mama and Papa’s hometown. Although that feeling of being together was hard to obtain again, we still tried.

“After all,” he said, “There are still some boxes in the basement we never went through.”

And so, I returned to their old house. It felt strange to be back not to visit Papa’s grave, but to eat and laugh with my family like we use to.

The younger cousins are tasked with grabbing the boxes in the basement and taking them upstairs. I always hated going down to that dark and damp basement as a child and not much has changed as an adult. Lucky me to be grouped in with the younger half of the family.

It takes a while, but my cousins and I gain the courage to finally tackle the boxes with Papa’s name on them.

Randy starts with Papa’s childhood mementos.

“This stuff smells gross,” He says holding the box at bay.

“Do you think we’ll die from whatever mold is around us?” Adrian says opening a trash bag and dumping some of its contents in the trash.

“No? But if we do then we don’t have to clean out the basement,” I reply grabbing another box.

“You gonna be okay?” Adrian asks pointing to the box in my hands.

It’s small and dusty. The edges are slightly damp from being on the floor. On the side “John’s Things - Box 7.”

Tears fall from my eyes without my permission and I quickly wipe them away.

“Yeah? Maybe? How are you doing?”

“I miss him too,” Adrian says and opens another box.

Silence crowds the basement as we all reminisce on memories of Papa.

“Dinner’s ready! Come eat!” my aunt shouts from the door.

I turn to head back upstairs, but a bag labeled, “to my love”, catches my eye and I bring it with me.

Making my way down the line of food, I fill up my plate every now and then.

“Sydney Nichole. I don’t see anything green on your plate.”

“You scared me, mom.”

My mom stands behind me with a disapproving look on her face.

“Greens, young lady,” she says as she fills her plate, and mine, with green beans.

“Look, someone made banana pudding,” my uncle says pointing out the dessert on the corner of the table.

We three look at each other. A single thought passes silently between us.

It won’t taste the same.

Still, we pile some on our plates and go find seats in the crowded area.

There’s an open seat near my grandmother. I take the seat, noticing she only has banana pudding on her plate.

“Mama, I found this in -” Papa’s things sits on the tip of my tongue but the words won’t come out.

“I found this in the basement.”

Mama takes the bag from my hands and sets it in her lap.

“Mama, aren’t you going to eat?” I say, questioning her lack of substantial food.

“I already had my plate while I was cooking,” she replies, giving me a grin that says, “You know. While I was cooking everything. By myself.”

We both know she didn’t make everything alone, but I’m not stupid enough to challenge her. I take that as my cue to shut up and eat, so I do. Eventually, all that remains is the dessert, the banana pudding.

“Have you tried it yet?” I say, gesturing towards her plate.

She goes quiet for a moment, considering her words. “No, it looks the same though, but…” Her unspoken thought lingers between us.

It looks the same, but it’s not the same. Papa didn’t make it. I wonder who brought the dessert. Probably a second cousin who doesn’t know better. Banana pudding died when Papa did. Sure, we tried to recreate the recipe, but couldn’t quite get it right. Papa never wrote it down, and our collective memories still couldn’t get our recreations to taste right. It was missing something.

Mama takes a spoonful. Her hand lingers for a moment, not quite sure if she should guide the spoon into her mouth. Her other hand is touching the necklace that holds Papa’s wedding ring.

I try to remember how Papa’s banana pudding tasted. It has been seven years since he died, and eleven years since he made it. The last time he made banana pudding, I was ten and had watched him prepare it. I wish now that I had paid more attention and wrote it down. Admiring the pudding that was on my plate before me, it does look good, really good. I take a bite, analyzing every ingredient in my mouth. Mama puts down her spoon. We look at each other and smile. It tastes good, but not great. Papa’s banana pudding was better. I’m sure of it.

Mama looks at me and we don’t mention our disappointment.

“What’s in the bag?” I say to fill the emptiness.

She sets her plate down and opens the small bag.

“Smells bad,” she murmurs to herself.

A watch is the first thing she pulls out and hands it to me. Followed by a little black book and an envelope. I open the envelope to see two one-hundred-dollar stacks with a currency strap labeled, $10,000.

“Mama, look.”

“John didn’t like banks.”

There’s no shock or wonder in her voice. In fact, she sounds a little heartbroken.

“What are you gonna do with it?”

She’s quiet for a moment, lost in some forgotten time from years ago.

“Restore the house. Turn it into what John and I always wanted.”

She places the money back in the envelope and sets it in her lap. I open the little book and erupt in a grin.

“Mama, after you restore the house can I make banana pudding?”

She looks at my discovery, warmth radiating from her expression.

“I’d like that very much.”

On the very first page, in his small and neat handwriting, rest Papa’s banana pudding recipe.