Banana Split Fluff

The tomatoes came in. Not the polite, grocery-store tomatoes that show up red and firm and tasteless as a handshake from a stranger. The real ones. The garden ones. The ones that have been sitting green and stubborn on the vine since April, taking their sweet time, ripening on their own schedule the way everything good does. I went out Wednesday morning before the heat got personal and there they were — four Cherokee Purples, heavy and warm and split at the shoulders the way a ripe tomato should be, ugly and perfect and smelling like summer and dirt and the hands that planted them.

Hattie Pearl grew Cherokee Purples. She got the seeds from a woman at church whose grandmother got them from a woman in the Sea Islands whose grandmother got them from somewhere further back than memory goes. The seeds travel. The flavor stays. I saved seeds last year and planted them in March and fussed at them through April and ignored them through May because sometimes the best thing you can do for a growing thing is leave it alone. And now here they are. Four tomatoes the color of a bruise, sweet as forgiveness, warm from the sun.

I made tomato sandwiches. If you have never had a tomato sandwich, I need you to understand something: it is the highest use of bread. White bread — and I will not argue about this — Duke's mayonnaise, thick slices of tomato still warm from the vine, salt, black pepper. That is all. That is everything. You do not add lettuce. You do not add cheese. You do not improve perfection. You eat it over the sink because the juice runs down your wrists and drips off your elbows and that is part of the experience. A tomato sandwich eaten neatly is a tomato sandwich eaten wrong.

Denise had one. Robert had two. I called Kayla and told her to come get tomatoes before I ate them all, and she came after her shift with Devon and the babies and I handed Michael a slice of tomato and he looked at it like I had handed him a mystery. He bit it. He chewed. He considered. He reached for another piece. That's my boy. Pearl held hers in her fist and squeezed until it went everywhere, which is also an acceptable response to a Cherokee Purple in July.

Four tomatoes. Two sandwiches. Seeds that have traveled further than I ever will. The garden gives back what you put in, and what I put in was time and water and Earl's memory, and what it gave back was summer on a plate.

Now go on and feed somebody.

The small First African Baptist Church congregation continues to be the small social-and-spiritual home. The small Wednesday-night-prayer-meeting. The small Sunday-morning-service. The small choir Dorothy has sung in for thirty-two years. The small church-cookouts where Dorothy’s small contributions are the small expected-presence.

Earl passed in 2019 on Valentine’s Day. The small widow-life is in its small seventh year now. The small house in the small Thunderbolt-neighborhood of Savannah near the marsh continues to be the small Dorothy-residence. The small house is the small place Earl maintained and where Earl built the small raised-bed-garden. The small kitchen is the small heart of the small house.

The small thirty-five years at the small Hodge Elementary School cafeteria are the small career-spine of Dorothy’s life. The small lunch-lady role had been the small everyday-presence for the small generation of Savannah kids. The small retirement in 2020 had been the small adjustment-period after the small thirty-five-year-tenure. The small Sunday-spread-at-the-Thunderbolt-house for the small grandkids is the small post-retirement-rhythm.

When Kayla came after her shift and Devon brought the babies and Michael considered that slice of Cherokee Purple with the seriousness of a small philosopher, I knew the afternoon was going to stretch the way good summer afternoons do — slow and loud and full of people eating things over the sink. The tomato sandwiches were the heart of it, but you cannot send family home on bread alone, not when you have a kitchen and grandchildren who have opinions about dessert. This Banana Split Fluff is what I put on the table after, easy enough that I can make it while people are still talking, sweet enough that Pearl stopped squeezing things and started pointing. It goes to every church cookout I attend, and it comes home empty every time.

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 15 minutes (plus 1 hour chilling) | Servings: 12

Ingredients

1 (8 oz) block cream cheese, softened
1 (14 oz) can sweetened condensed milk
1 (20 oz) can crushed pineapple, drained well
3 medium bananas, sliced
1 (10 oz) jar maraschino cherries, drained and halved
1 (8 oz) tub frozen whipped topping, thawed
1/2 cup chopped pecans or walnuts
1/4 cup chocolate syrup, for drizzling
1/4 cup rainbow sprinkles (optional, for the grandkids)

Instructions

Beat the base. In a large mixing bowl, beat the softened cream cheese with a hand mixer until smooth and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Pour in the sweetened condensed milk and beat again until fully combined and creamy.
Fold in the fruit. Stir in the drained crushed pineapple. Gently fold in the sliced bananas and halved maraschino cherries, reserving a few cherries for the top if you want it to look pretty when you set it on the table.
Add the whipped topping. Fold in the thawed whipped topping with a rubber spatula using slow, easy strokes — you want to keep it light. Do not stir it hard or it will go flat on you.
Finish and chill. Transfer to a large serving bowl or a 9x13 dish. Scatter the chopped pecans over the top, drizzle with chocolate syrup, and add the reserved cherries. Sprinkle on the rainbow sprinkles if you have small people watching you. Cover and refrigerate for at least 1 hour before serving.
Serve cold. Spoon into bowls or cups straight from the refrigerator. It holds well for up to 2 days covered in the fridge, though it rarely lasts that long.

Nutrition (per serving)

Banana Split Fluff — Something Sweet for the Sunday Spread