That's not a banana: Impatient plantains and cinnamon-scented cement

If you have ever spent time in the tropics and/or bitten into a fat, hard-to-peel banana that tasted just awful, then you're already familiar with the plantain. They're like the banana's often-misunderstood older cousin, getting judged for their tough exterior and for trying to pass as the softer, good-when-raw ray of sunshine known as the cavendish banana.

But plantains ain't no wannabes. They're fine in their own right (the ones at Sonny's, Portland, in particular). So I looked up an easy fried plantain recipe, complete with a step-by-step video and picked up a few green plantains from the grocery store.

I'd read that, unlike bananas that turn brown as they expire, plantains turn black as they ripen. So I set them on the counter and waited. And waited. And waited. They stayed green for weeks. They resisted the dark side. So finally, when I could wait no more for them to completely black out, I cut into one.

The darn thing was hardened all the way through as though suffering from a fruit form of rigor mortis. I'd let the plantains go too long. So I shed a few tears, then went back to the store for a few more plantains. This time I didn't wait.

Plantains peel pretty easily, once a knife has lopped off the ends and put a nice slice down the length.

They also fry up fast - just a few minutes on each side.

The recipe above suggested a two-fry method, where the plantains are cooled before being squished and fried again.

When it comes to squishing, almost any near-at-hand tool will do. I used a pint glass.

And then refried.

The dipping sauce is even easier:
1/4 C sour cream
1/8 tsp chipotle pepper
1 tbsp lime juice
1 tbsp lemon juice

Cinnamon-scented cement

Feeling so plantain inspired, I tried another recipe for a plantains in temptation sauce that I'd seen on Pinterest a few weeks back.

The ingredients:
3/4 C sugar
3/4 C water
3/4 C sherry or balsamic vinegar
2 tsp grated lime rind
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp ground cloves
1 T butter

The sugar melted just like it was supposed to. The scent of cinnamon and lime proliferated my house.

The sauce simmered on the stove top, and when I sampled it, I knew I'd tasted plantain sauce greatness.

I stirred occasionally as it reduced and the kitchen timer ticked down from 25 (because the recipe said, "Cook 25 minutes or until mixture is reduced to 1 cup.") But at minute 19 I could smell something...not right. Almost burning. I whisked the pan from the heat, but it was too late. I'd let it go too long. The sauce had turned to sludge and the sludge was hardening as it cooled.

I was left with plantains coated in cinnamon-scented cement.

On the upside, my kitchen still smells good.

Burn Gallery: Plantain sauce or cinnamon-scented cement?

This plantain sauce started so well. It's taste? Akin to heaven! Until it started burning, foaming, and smoking like the fiery pits of hell.

Grocery shopping: Source of bliss or burden akin to tooth extraction?

It's been a long time since I cried in a grocery store - probably since the Parent vs. Child Skittles Fallout of 1982. Or maybe it was the time I fell and split my knee open outside the 7-11 and my older brother told me "it'll be fine. Just spit on it." So I did, then I went inside for some Big League Chew and had to stifle tears in the candy aisle.

But otherwise, the grocery store doesn't tend to elicit much emotion. Though I suppose I'm not usually inside long enough for it to toy with my mental state. Read: I'm too fast.

I get in, I get the wine, I get the couscous, and I get the hell out of there. But some people adore the store. They peruse, they wander, they meditate on the munster. According to a 2009 survey of grocery store shoppers in the U.S., a solid 53 percent of them like or love it. Three percent would rather have a limb removed. At least that's my interpretation of the data. (How do you feel about grocery shopping? Take the poll below.)

[More on the survey by The Nielsen Company]

I'd like to like the grocery store, but I wanted to take it slow at first, really get to know each other. If things went well, we'd have a talk, discuss our feelings, and then mutually agree to take it to a more serious, committed level.

But then the Mill Creek Hannaford started changing.

One day the cereal aisle became the beer aisle, which was moved near cosmetics, which are now down aisle 16 instead of 14, near the organic soups, which used to be in aisle one, where the tortillas, rice, and salsa currently reside. Tomorrow they'll be moved again.

On the downside, searching for unfamiliar products in a grocery store that changes its layout with the same frequency as the grand staircase at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry can be frustrating. It can raise a shopper's blood pressure, increase stress levels, or incite tears.

On the upside, it's kinda like a scavenger hunt (I prefer to compete against the clock or sometimes against fellow shoppers who become my unwitting nemeses for the duration of the shopping experience). And I'm discovering things I never noticed in the store before (tomatillo? Muy adorable!).

So I'm endeavoring to show the aisles a little more appreciation.