Easy Banana Oatmeal

Halfway through Taxol. Six down, six to go. I'm counting infusions the way prisoners count days — not because I'm being dramatic, but because having a number helps. Six more Mondays in the recliner. Six more weeks of Maria's steady hands and the drip-drip-drip of liquid courage that doesn't feel like courage, it feels like poison that happens to be on my side.

I'm getting stronger. Not strong — I won't be strong until this is over and possibly not even then — but stronger than November. I'm working three half-days a week at the clinic. I'm cooking most evenings, simple things: chicken and rice, soup, pasta, sandwiches. I'm walking Hank every day, and our pace has improved from "embarrassing" to "leisurely." I'm sleeping through the night, mostly, though the night sweats wake me at 3 AM sometimes and I lie there in the dark listening to Scott breathe and thinking about everything and nothing.

Mason came home from school this week and said, "Mama, Ethan's mom said you're brave." I said, "That was nice of her." He said, "Are you?" I said, "Am I what?" He said, "Brave." And I thought about it. Really thought about it. Because people keep calling me brave, and I don't feel brave. Brave implies a choice. Brave implies that I could have chosen not to fight, and I chose to fight, and that makes me heroic. But there was no choice. The cancer showed up. The treatment was offered. I took it. That's not bravery. That's survival. It's what every living thing does when threatened — it fights, not because it's brave, but because the alternative is dying. I said, "I'm just stubborn, buddy," and Mason said, "That's what Grandma says too," and I laughed because he's right. Diane would say the same thing. Dawson women aren't brave. We're stubborn. There's a difference.

Scott was gone on Saturday — some buddy's birthday thing, beers and bowling. He asked if it was okay. I said yes. What I meant was: you're going to go regardless of what I say, and at least by saying yes I maintain the illusion of having been consulted. He came home at 11 PM, not drunk, not sober, the usual. I was already asleep. This is how it works now. He asks permission. I grant it. He goes. I manage. This is not a marriage. This is a custody arrangement with benefits.

I made banana bread this week. Two overripe bananas on the counter, browning and soft, and I couldn't let them go to waste because Dawson women do not waste food. It is in our DNA. We will eat leftovers until they evolve, we will freeze things that should not be frozen, and we will turn every sad piece of fruit into baked goods because that is what our mothers did and their mothers before them. The banana bread was warm and dense and sweet, and Mason ate a slice with butter and said it was "the best ever," which is what he says about everything I make, and which I will never tire of hearing.

The banana bread felt like proof of something—that I could still make something good out of what was going bad, that the Dawson instinct to salvage and transform hadn’t left me. But two bananas doesn’t always make a loaf, and some mornings Mason needs something warm before school and I need something to do with my hands before 7 AM. That’s how we landed on this oatmeal: same bananas, same impulse, ten minutes instead of an hour.

Prep Time: 2 minutes | Cook Time: 8 minutes | Total Time: 10 minutes | Servings: 2

Ingredients

2 very ripe bananas, the browner the better
1 cup old-fashioned rolled oats
2 cups whole milk (or any milk you have)
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon fine salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 tablespoon butter
Optional toppings: sliced banana, a drizzle of honey, a pat of butter, chopped walnuts

Instructions

Mash the bananas. Peel both bananas into a small bowl and mash well with a fork until mostly smooth. A few lumps are fine — they melt right in.
Warm the milk. Pour the milk into a small saucepan over medium heat. Bring just to a gentle simmer — don’t let it boil.
Add oats and banana. Stir in the oats, mashed banana, cinnamon, and salt. Reduce heat to medium-low.
Cook, stirring often. Cook for 5–7 minutes, stirring frequently, until the oats are thick and creamy and have absorbed most of the liquid.
Finish and serve. Remove from heat. Stir in the vanilla and butter until the butter melts. Spoon into bowls and add toppings of your choice. Serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Easy Banana Oatmeal — What We Make When We Can’t Let Things Go to Waste