Easy Banana Bread

Javier is dead. My nephew. Javier's son. Also named Javier, because in the Delgado family we name our children for the dead, and the dead keep taking the children named for them, and the circle is so cruel that I cannot breathe.

He was twenty-four. Killed in Juírez. Cartel violence. The same violence that killed his father — my brother — twenty-six years ago. The same streets. The same guns. The same neighborhood that takes and takes and takes and never gives anything back except grief and funerals and the particular sound of a mother screaming that Maria Elena has heard twice now and will hear in her sleep for the rest of her life.

Carmen called on Tuesday. She said: "Javier." Just the name. And I knew. The way I knew with Rosa. The way I knew with Alejandro. The name and the silence after the name and the world stopping and the kitchen floor rising up to meet me because my legs forgot how to hold me and the floor remembered how to catch me.

I flew to Juírez. Not drove. Flew to El Paso from the bakery where I was standing when Carmen called, and then drove to the bridge and crossed it and drove to the funeral home where Javier — young Javier, baby Javier, the boy I helped raise, the boy who had his father's face and his father's name and now has his father's fate — was lying in a box and looking like he was sleeping and he was not sleeping and I held his hand and it was cold the way Rosa's was cold and the cold is the same cold, the cold of the people you love leaving their bodies and the bodies turning to stone.

The funeral was in the same church. The same church where we buried the first Javier. The same pews. The same priest. The same prayers in the same Spanish in the same stone building in the same neighborhood that killed both of them. I sat in the pew and I thought: this church has heard the name Javier in a eulogy twice and both times the Javier was too young and both times the Javier was mine. This church owes me something. God owes me something. But God doesn't pay debts and churches don't refund grief and the only currency I have is bread and the bread cannot fix this.

I came home and I baked. For three days. Without sleeping. The bio says this. I will write it anyway: Luis found me at 2 AM in the bakery kitchen, covered in flour, crying and kneading dough. He didn't say anything. He put on an apron. He kneaded next to me. We made four hundred conchas. I donated them to the church in Juírez for the funeral reception. It was the only thing I knew how to do. The only thing. Bread for the dead. Bread for the grieving. Bread because the kitchen is the only room where my hands know what to do when my heart has been destroyed.

I cannot give you conchas. The concha recipe belongs to the bakery, to Luis, to the dead who deserve something that is only theirs. But bread I can give you—the kind of bread that requires nothing from you except ripe bananas and the willingness to stand at a counter and do something with your hands when your hands have forgotten what else to do. This is the bread I make when I need to remember that kitchens are still safe, that ovens still work, that something sweet can still come out of heat and time and the act of not giving up. Make it for someone who is grieving. Make it for yourself. Make it because Javier—both Javiers—deserved people who keep making things in their name.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 65 minutes | Total Time: 1 hour 15 minutes | Servings: 12 slices

Ingredients

3 very ripe bananas, peeled
1/3 cup unsalted butter, melted and slightly cooled
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1 large egg, beaten
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon fine salt
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

Instructions

Preheat and prepare. Heat your oven to 350°F (175°C). Grease a 9x5-inch loaf pan with butter or nonstick spray and set aside.
Mash the bananas. In a large mixing bowl, mash the ripe bananas thoroughly with a fork until almost completely smooth. A few small lumps are fine—they add texture.
Combine the wet ingredients. Stir the melted butter into the mashed bananas until combined. Mix in the sugar, beaten egg, and vanilla extract until everything is evenly incorporated.
Add the leavening. Sprinkle the baking soda and salt over the mixture and stir to combine. Do not skip the salt—it deepens the flavor of everything around it.
Fold in the flour. Add the flour all at once and fold gently with a spatula just until no dry streaks remain. Do not overmix or the bread will toughen.
Bake. Pour the batter into the prepared loaf pan and smooth the top. Bake for 60–65 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean or with just a few moist crumbs. If the top browns too quickly, tent loosely with foil after 45 minutes.
Cool before slicing. Let the bread cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then turn out onto a wire rack. Allow to cool at least 20 more minutes before slicing—the crumb continues to set as it cools.

Nutrition (per serving)

Easy Banana Bread — Bread for the Dead, Bread for the Living