Well, last week we talked about Thanksgiving. Today, we’re talking about The Night of the Banana Bread. 

Indy wasn’t feeling great. He was, in fact, one sick dude. Parkinson’s disease is like that — one minute you’re fine, the next minute fine is acting like you owe it money and stole its girl. 

I headed to the Temple of Doom. To assess. To help. To be the bad guy. 

I’m especially good at being the bad guy.  

I was prepared to see Indy ill. I was prepared to find Willie irate. I was prepared to get in trouble.  

All that preparation was for naught. 

I opened the door and was immediately enveloped in a scented cloud of warm banana bread and Clorox. The apartment was an explosion of cleaning products and banana bread in varying degrees of baking. 

It was like Mr. Clean and Betty Crocker had held a Bacchanalia. Various cleaners — carpet, counter, floor — dotted the apartment alongside rags, sponges, and paper towels. Laundry in various states covered the apartment. The dishwasher stood open. 

And the banana bread. Oh, the banana bread. It sat cooling on the counter. It baked in the oven. Batter oozed from every nook of the kitchen, like the slime in Sigourney Weaver’s apartment after she gets possessed by the Gatekeeper. 

“What happened?” I asked. 

What happened? Well, what happened was that Indy woke up sick and Willie was upset so she decided to make banana bread. 

“I had a million other things to do. But I just wanted to make banana bread. So I made banana bread.” 

Boy, did she. I could have built a stairway to heaven with all the bread she made. 

I sat Willie down with a glass of water while I got Indy settled. Then I tackled the apartment. I slid bread from the oven. I put away toilet bowl cleaner. I hoped the toilet bowl cleaner hadn’t wound up in the banana bread. 

“Do you want a slice?” Willie asked. 

I declined. My esophagus is clean enough without liquid blue toilet bowl cleaner disinfecting it.  

I sat with Willie as she told me about her day. She had changed Indy into fresh pajamas that morning. 

“And I told him,” she said, “I told him that I hope he knows he’s not the only guy I’ve seen naked.” 

“Why does he have to know that?” I asked. For that matter, why did I have to know that? 

“Were these naked guys a personal or a professional endeavor?” my husband asked. 

Willie was a nurse, once upon a time. That’s where she saw all the naked dudes. So professional endeavor.  

I hope, anyway. And I don’t want to be disabused of that notion. So if you’re reading this, and you’re one of those naked guys, keep it to yourself. 

“Why don’t you give your father some banana bread?” Willie suggested. But I didn’t think she wanted Indy’s insides dissolved by Lysol so I gave him a cinnamon bun instead. 

Willie was conflicted about the banana bread. Should she have baked it? Should she have spent that time doing the things that needed to get done? Should she have confused the butter with the toilet cleaner? 

“I think you should stress less about the banana bread and stress more about the naked guys you told Indy about. Nobody needed to hear that,” I said. 

“Oh you’re terrible!” Willie laughed.  

Huh. I kind of thought the oversharing was terrible but nobody asked me. 

Days passed. Indy got better. The banana bread disappeared. Maybe the toilet cleaner in the banana bread healed him. I don’t know. 

I do know I’m never going to let go of that joke. Come on. Toilet bowl cleaner in the banana bread? You know it probably got close to happening. 

I should probably call that night The Night of the Toilet Bowl Cleaner in the Banana Bread. 

Well, it’s too late now. I will forever call it The Night of the Banana Bread. 

Willie is gearing up to make her holiday pumpkin bread. She makes a loaf for everyone she’s ever met. 

So get ready, naked guys. There’s pumpkin bread coming your way.