Mama slid another flour-coated chunk of banana into the sizzling oil, causing the hot concoction to crackle in response. She had cut each of the Lilliputian-sized Apple bananas into four pieces and rolled them in a mixture of flour, tapioca, and sugar. My father loved the final product: fried bananas. Crispy on the outside, sweet on the inside. As I observed Mama strain the fried bananas, a thought came unbidden: Why couldn’t Papa live longer so he could enjoy this moment with us?
I get that not everyone grew up with a loving dad. My work as a clinical psychologist guarantees
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