I am a perfectionist. It’s a trait of my star sign. Yep, I’m also a horoscope girl. Of course you’re not surprised. I tell you constantly that I’m psychic. This is weird addressing you directly. Does it feel like I’m talking to you personally? I’m starting to have fun with writing, life is still a joke.

I don’t want this to always feel so serious. It’s tales from the tropics. Let me regale you. My favourite part is actually writing the caption. That’s why some of the things I say should technically be categorised under ‘thoughts’ (my OCD is screaming at the inconsistency- forgive me) but I really like doing the captions. Did I mention the captions? I hate question marks my next challenge will be to write a post without one fucking question mark. Deal. Pull me up on it.

The banana thing. I chucked that in for an anecdote to lighten the mood. I’m so organic right now. We have chickens! Today I saw a hen and she had four baby chicks and I was mesmerised. Fuck they’re cute. Things are less delicious when you live with them. This is probably why white people don’t eat dogs. Our pet dog’s name is Oreo. I am unsure what this means yet. Sometimes he is chained. It may be a signal that we love him. Not food. I’m fucking joking.

Bananas have been arriving for the last week. And I have been stuffing my face with my great grandmother’s recipe. This one’s not hard. You deep fry the bananas and toss them in brown sugar. It’s actually so fucking good.

The first day of the bananas, I came home from my night swim (save the content SJ- you’ll soon find out) to find two large cut branches sitting on our porch. I’m not talking about bunches I’m talking about tree branches. Ladyfinger bananas. Fancy.

‘why are there bananas on the doorstep?’ I ask my Uncle.

‘they’re from the farm, the men who look after the farm bring the bananas when they’re ready’

‘what do you do with them?’

‘eat them, give them away. It’s banana season. They just drop them off when they’re ready. Are you hungry?’

I’ve stopped questioning why things happen. We have a banana problem- there aren’t enough for commercial sale but there are too much for personal consumption. We’re not even getting the brunt of bananas. I am told that my uncle doesn’t want to see more than two of these branches at our house per day. That’s minimum fifty bananas per day. They arrive in pedicabs. A pedicab is the most economical form of local transport. It’ a bicycle with a carriage attached that can hold two seated passengers. Usually kids take them back and forth from school. The bananas are propped up like little passengers and carefully escorted to our front door. Cute.

There’s an Asian racial slur in Australia, ‘banana’. Yellow on the outside. White on the inside. Cross-cultural problems are my daily struggle. Neo colonialism you are an upcoming rant. My grandmother chuckles at me as I tell her that the bananas are rotten. If you’ve had a ladyfinger banana you know that they’re supposed to be eaten when they look over ripe. These ones are yellow but black at the part where they are attached to the tree. God, to have the vocab of a farmer’s daughter. I’m from Bala m8. I’m just describing in the dark. Soz fam.

Everyday my princess factor diminishes. The bananass were cut fresh from the tree without pesticides; the black stuff is just where the ants (non fire kind) and other bugs have been seeking nutrients. Fucking gross. There are still ants on them. Probably why they’re on the front steps and not in a fruit bowl. Please present me perfect platanos (bananas- it was good alliteration). I wash the bananas clean and peel them with a knife, she’s right. Inside they’re perfect. Organic living. I’m doing it. Look at me chillin’ that not everything has to be perfect. Aim for edible.