We’ll Always Have Banana Bread

“What are you doing here?” a cop asked as we navigated the steep hill from the ferry terminal to what ended up being a diner with plywood boarded windows. I could see the holster on his hip like he was right out of a true crime documentary.

“We were going to have some dinner,” my husband told him.

“Here?” His eyebrow raised and he rubbed the stubble on his chin, his glace to his partner revealing his opinion of us: fools. “You should go back to the city.”

We rode the Staten Island Ferry because it was free. Because, why not? That question was answered within moments of stepping off the boat. There was an eerie stillness. Loose newspaper pages danced across the asphalt. The only humans in sight were a hairy, unhomed man sitting against a fence and a boy, maybe 11, navigating his skateboard down an empty street. A gull cawed. I wondered if this was the end of the world.

“If you’re quick you can catch the ferry before it’s gone again,” the cop said, shooing us back down the hill.

“What’s behind that plywood?” I wanted to ask.

“MURDER!” a crow screamed.

We hurried back to the boat, knowing we’d just experienced an unfair view of a place that was home to thousands, where at that very moment there were people laughing and loving and eating and playing. But they had been hidden, and all we felt was relief.

I’ve never had a near-death experience—unless you count the time I fell out of a moving car and rolled into the ditch on the side of a busy highway, or that time I woke up on the operating table (maybe I’ll tell that story some day)—but the unsettled fear we shared as our footsteps echoed across that empty port station on our way back to Manhattan hangs like an ominous shadow in my memory—like we just missed something terrible; like we barely escaped the kind of horror you don’t come back from.

And yes, I have watched far too many zombie movies.

Here we are, minutes after getting back on the boat, relieved to be alive. 😅

Back in the city and with a false sense of safety under our belts, we continued our exploration. Times Square is wild and rude and it’s fun to see, but I wouldn’t recommend it.

It was raining and we ducked around a corner to find a fruit stand under an eave of tarps, water dripping onto apples, people pushing through. A little man rearranged some oranges as we took shelter for a moment of reprieve from the weather.

A woman ran up, great droplets falling from her curls, her smile warm and her hand outstretched with a package for the fruit man. His face cracked into a wide grin and he wiped his forehead before accepting the package. “Banana bread?” he asked.

“Of course,” the woman said. “Fresh from the oven. It’s still warm!”

He raised it to his nose and sniffed and sighed. “Thank you.”

She touched his arm in a gesture of friendship and then disappeared, beaming, into the throng beyond the fruit stand.

I didn’t know what their relationship was. She could have been his daughter or his niece. But I liked to think she was just a regular who supported his little business and wanted to brighten his day once in a while with home baked goods.

We ventured back into the rain. I watched Elmo chase down a family with kids, trying to coerce them into a photo. Spider-Man walked past me and I high-fived him like a total dork. I saw a tin man covered in silver paint cower beneath an umbrella. But none of these things were really interesting. All I wished was that I’d had the foresight to have my camera ready to capture the moment that banana bread exchanged hands—to capture a moment so tender in the midst of a place that was pure chaos would have been a great gift.

I am left with nothing but a memory of goodness that followed an experience of great discomfort. Now, anytime I’m frustrated with the state of things, I think about that banana bread and remind myself that there is still good in the world.

There is so much noise out there. Everyone is shouting about their offer and claiming it’s the one thing that will change your life. That’s not what I’m going to do. Instead, I just want sidle up to your story; I want to take it home with me; I want to mash it and stir it and form it into something you’ve been dreaming of. I want to put it into your hands, still warm from our joint effort, and watch as you lift it to your nose and sniff (because we all know smelling a book is just as lovely as smelling fresh banana bread) and then I want to slip into the crowd, beaming, while you ride the glory wave of holding your published book in your hands.

So if you’re feeling a little like a fruit stand vendor out in the rain with nothing but a leaky tarp to protect you, Chicken House Press might be the safe harbour for your bananas…er, story… (am I pushing this metaphor too hard? 😏 )…use the button below to book a little chat with me and let’s talk about turning that raw fruit into a lovely treat we’ll both be proud of.