I bought some sad-looking bananas the other day. They were not the San Franciscan bananas I remember, which grew on our rolling and green and fertile fields, dotted with lusciously over-laden trees that drip perfectly ripe and plump fruit. Okay, I have not actually got the slightest idea where bananas come from. Are they grown in Southern California? They grow where it is hot, right? So maybe I was living in a banana gold mine, and I never saw it, until it was too late.

Now I see it, living in winter, in a land-bound state. These are obviously inferior bananas, these tragic things I am expected to buy, woe. I had a banana today, and walking from the kitchen, back into the living room, I peeled it, took a bite, and thought mm, banana. Because it's a banana. And I am not a gourmet, and my tastebuds?--they are not refined. There is no reason for me to let homesickness make me a snob, and there is not a thing in the world keeping me from making tuna casserole. I should embrace my low class. And eat more fruit.