Remarkably Like Bananas 11/10 -953 Words

An American Foreign exchange student discovers she has a flair for disasters.

Dear Mom and Dad:
          Well, you know me. I promised to keep you updated on my Moldovan adventures, and let me tell you, there have been adventures. Of the unintentional, slightly chaotic variety, but adventures nonetheless! I think my clumsiness has found a new, more exotic playground here. Europe is just not ready for Skylar.

          My host family, the Popescus, are wonderful. They've been so patient, especially considering my... expressive communication style. Case in point: my very first solo outing. I decided to be adventurous and try a local restaurant. I saw this little sign that said "Sarmale," and a waiter was standing nearby. Now, in my head, this was a direct correlation. The word on the sign must be the waiter's name, right? So, I pointed at the sign, then at him, and, to my mind, very clearly asked, "Sarmale?" He looked utterly confused. I tried again, enunciating a little more, pointing with more emphasis. "Sarmale?" Third time's the charm, I thought. I pointed, I nodded, I even did a little inquisitive eyebrow wiggle. Finally, the poor man gave a hesitant nod, convinced I was asking if he was, in fact, Sarmale. He then proceeded to seat me and bring me three enormous plates of actual Sarmale, which I bravely, and guiltily, ate. Delicious, by the way, but definitely not a person. Note to self: words on signs are food names, not waiter names. Who knew?

          A few days later, I was enjoying a steaming bowl of borscht (which is surprisingly delicious, even if it looks like something out of a witch's cauldron). I was feeling quite sophisticated, contemplating the cultural nuances of beetroot soup, when my shoelaces, those treacherous little friends, decided to stage a rebellion. One moment I was admiring a passing dog, the next I was airborne, and the borscht bowl was reenacting a volcanic eruption directly onto the pristine uniforms of two very important-looking gentlemen, from what I later gathered, the General Police Inspectorate. Their faces. Oh, their faces. I saw them age ten years at that moment. I stammered out apologies in my best broken Romanian, which sounded like a distressed goose trying to recite Shakespeare. They were remarkably composed, considering the beet-red bath they'd just received. I'm fairly sure I'm now on a Moldovan watchlist, under the codename "The Borscht Bomber."

          You know I lack finesse in all physical things, and you know how literally my brain operates. When the recipe called for a "splash" of vanilla, I did not think of a measured teaspoon. I remembered the children's pool at the community center back home, and the considerable, satisfying noise the water made when I inadvertently fell into it. I decided a proper, dramatic splash was required for success.

          The vanilla extract bottle was enormous. It looked like a small wine bottle. I attempted to execute the perfect aquatic sound effect by pouring swiftly and stopping abruptly. But the bottle, heavy and having a slick, newly washed surface, slipped from my grasp.

          It did not just spill. It executed a magnificent, caramel-colored arc across the kitchen, hit the counter, and exploded. The resulting shower was spectacular. I estimate that 60% of the bottle's contents ended up on the delicate Lemon Cloud batter, turning it into a thick, pungent, brown sludge. The remaining 40% created a highly flammable, sugary puddle on the stovetop.

          In my panic, I grabbed the closest thing to mop it up, which, unfortunately, was the large bag of artisanal, imported coconut flour. I dumped the flour onto the puddle, hoping to absorb the vanilla, but instead created a cement-like paste that immediately smoked upon contact with the burner's residual heat.

          The smoke alarm began screaming like a banshee.

          I tried to fan the smoke away using a dish towel, which I accidentally flung onto the stovetop. It ignited instantly. I managed to extinguish the flame with a massive amount of lemonade chilling nearby, but by then the kitchen looked like a bakery explosion.

          The host family, to say the least, was shocked. It took several hours to clean the kitchen, most of which I spent apologizing.

          Determined to redeem myself, I signed up for a cooking class. The plan was to make a traditional dessert, something that would make Mama Popescu proud. We were making some sweet pastry, and the recipe called for "bananas."

          Now, I'm no stranger to bananas. I eat them. I blend them. They are benign. However, the market here had these large, greenish fruits that looked remarkably like bananas. In my infinite wisdom, and assuming a slight regional variation, I confidently grabbed a bunch and started mashing. The instructor, a sweet older woman with kind eyes, kept looking at me a little strangely, but I just smiled and gave her a confident thumbs-up.

          Fast forward an hour, and we serve our creations. The dessert was... interesting. Let's say it had a distinct, almost medicinal, flavor profile. Turns out, I hadn't used bananas. I used plantains. Big, starchy, uncooked plantains. The two teachers tasted it, and within minutes, both were complaining of severe stomach distress, and we had to call an ambulance. I think they're both going to be okay, but I'm fairly sure I've been banned from all future culinary endeavors in Moldova.

          My host parents are currently trying to arrange for me to take a separate, highly supervised, one-on-one introductory cooking class that involves only boiling water.

          Those two police officers have advised me that I am not allowed to leave the country until a formal investigation has been completed regarding all my "accidents" while cooking.

          Well, it has been an interesting first week. I hope the remainder of my stay is boring.

          Love and hugs,

Skylar

PS.
P.S. Just kidding, Mom/Dad! I'll be home for the Holidays!


Word Count: 965
Prompt: A Dear Mom/Dad letter arrives home from a college exchange student visiting another country.