I plug the cord in and flip the power switch. Stepping back, I listen to the familiar droning hum of the dehydrator; it’s working. It looks rather ominous, dominating the counter with its large size and disk-like shape. It reminds me of an alien spacecraft, coming to invade the culinary world; drying the fruits of my small kitchen, one by one. It was once white, but now tainted from use, has taken up an antique-yellow quality. I like it; it feels like I’ve had it forever and gives me a sense of reminiscence – like an old childhood memory – though I associate no particular fond moment with it.

Upon this pleasant reflection, I pick up the pile of brown, mushy banana peel remains and toss them into the waste basket, disgusted by the smell and feeling it leaves on my hands and in my gut, but happy to be done with this step of the process. I wash my hands and return to wipe off the counter. It’s been a while since I’ve dehydrated bananas, four months at least. I look at the clock and make a mental note in my mind of what time it will be in about fifteen hours. Even though I know that it always ends up taking closer to twenty hours, I’m stuck in the rut of habit and have no convicting reason to change.

As I’m walking from room to room, doing various chores, I keep being drawn to the scent and sound coming from the dehydrator. I look at the time. It’s only been a few hours, and peeking won’t make the day pass any quicker.

Completely ignoring any self-restraint, I open the lid and take in the scene. The four trays, neatly stacked to make a short cylinder, are each filled with as many of the small, round, banana slices as can fit on them. I take a deep breath and start coughing; I had forgotten that they still smell like bananas – it really hasn’t been long enough.

I don’t like bananas. I wish I did, I know they’re a wonderful source of potassium. But, they’re mushy. I just can’t seem to get the texture down – literally, I have to choke it down. Does the smell bother me? Am I only repelled by the scent because I connect it with the other things I don’t like about the fruit?
Why then, do I like banana chips? I’m not sure. Whatever it is that I don’t like about bananas seems to vanish in the drying process. With that brief analysis, I close the lid (and the subject) and turn to see what my next task will be.

The vase of flowers on the table would fare much better by the window. Dancing across the tiled floor, I carry the flowers to the other side of the room, planning to set them by the window. Unfortunately, I haven’t cleaned that part of the counter; no big deal, it will only take a moment, and I’m always up for a challenge. I put the flowers down to free my hands so I can wash the original destination spot off. Somehow, I lose my balance – the vase slips.

My hand flies to cover my mouth as I breathe in sharply. A chain of reactions follows: the vase shatters, the water splashes, a series of cook books topple over, and in the end, the excitement comes to nothing but a big mess and a bit of agitation. It felt excruciatingly slow, one thing falling after another. After watching helplessly, I wake up from the daze and scramble to clean everything up.

The chaos settles, and my senses allow other things to distract. I notice that the constant sound of the dehydrator has ceased to a low, sputtering buzz. I lift the lid to see if it’s still working. I can feel the heat faintly as it escapes into the room. I stretch out my hand and wave it back and forth above the dehydrator as if I’m trying to awaken it from a trance; nothing. I put the lid back on and try toggling the power switch up and down to see if that restarts it. By now, the odd noises have stopped altogether, and it seems that the fate of my banana slices is settled: they are eternally bound to this half-dried state, never to know the feeling of complete preservation.

I sigh and ponder what I should do. I could always put the bananas on a baking pan and dry them out in the oven, but that isn’t quite the same. I suppose there’s the old fashioned method of putting them outside and leaving them to bask in the sun for a little while too – but that requires a sunny day. Not wanting to think about it, I leave and do other things. And so the day passes by and I mostly forget about the entire ordeal.

Later that evening, a family member comes home and upon entrance, exclaims, “Yum, it smells like someone was making banana chips!” I relate the events from earlier in the day to him, looking for some sort of understanding in reply; sympathy. But, all I get is, “Let me take a look at it.” In a poor attempt to display that I had already tried everything to make it work, I roll my eyes impatiently. Nevertheless, I follow him into the kitchen, and once there, station myself with my arms crossed, my head cocked to the side, and my right eyebrow raised. Unconvinced, I tap my foot and watch to see what “new” conclusion will be drawn from the situation.

Soon more people come home and follow their noses straight into the kitchen. “What’s going on?” They ask. “Oh, nothing that hasn’t already happened,” I reply in an indignant tone. With confused expressions, they turn their eyes to the dehydrator and watch as its being interrogated. Smiling, the uninvited inspector turns around and dangles the power cord triumphantly in front of my face. He plugs it into the outlet, and the normal humming sound returns; the heat is working once more.

I’m not sure if I should be happy or mad. I was quite resigned to ceremoniously scraping the bananas into the garbage and disposing of the dehydrator for good; I did get it at a garage sale for only five dollars. I had secretly been hoping that nothing would be found that could fix it – why would I want to be proved wrong?
But then again, how can I be upset when banana chips are mere hours away?

-A paper written for my English class, by becca.