A columnar tier of green bananas drops down from its stem like a chandelier of dripping crystals in the resplendent Hall of Mirrors at the Palace of Versailles; during the period when the grandest of grand marquises, Madame de Pompadour, headed the courts and dictated the fashions of France. The bunch of bananas is of a great size, indeed, due largely in part because of the proper care and tending it received befitting a plant belonging in the garden of a bourgeois neighborhood, handsome and respectable, the kind of commune where its worthy residents name their pets such as Duchess and Cornelius, among other designated grand titles. And given that this banana has been provided for and treated as much as a doted pet, it would not surprise me in the least bit if its owner had prescribed the green pillar with a nickname of its own.
Dear reader, I can imagine at this point your countenance contorted into an incredulous look, “Name a plant?” you question. Be not so doubtful, most open-minded person, for if fish farmers can talk to their future harvest with maternal concern, why not can an agriculturalists hug his trees.
Anyway, I digress, as is usually the case with my meandering posts; an inculcated inclination brought about by a desire to imitate the quality of classical literature, and in the madness to achieve it, has made me a manufacturer of verbosity and insignificant distractions. So saying, having censured myself enough for one day, and returning to the topic of bananas, these here are of a common cultivar, which is to say a firm and sweet variant that one can purchase at any supermarket of good repute, with the extra advantage of being organic, I think.