Chocolate Banana Chip Cookies

When I was wheeled into surgery six weeks ago, I knew I would have a road ahead of me, but I didn't realize it would be unpaved and stretch so far into the distance that I wouldn't begin to see the end for a month. I held strong in the days before, reassuring everyone I was tougher than I looked, a smile on my face. I even felt lucky, gown and hospital bracelet in hand, knowing that I wouldn't have to endure the fear and anxiety as my loved ones would in the waiting room, wringing their hands as the hours ticked by on the clock. I suppressed the nervousness, for family, for myself, only allowing it to surface when I found myself on the table, counting backwards from ten.

When I awoke, my mind cloudy with medication, all I could feel was pain—an endless, enduring pain that threatened to consume me.

Recovery is hard. It is harder than I ever gave it credit for. After a handful of days in the hospital, after four sleepless nights, after being poked and prodded until I lost my ability to care, I was released. I was weak and exhausted and in pain, but the worst had passed. I went home with my parents. I spent time on the couch. I picked at my food, appetite gone. I watched countless of hours of Full House, my angel and saving grace from three until six in the morning. With a foggy head and a cabinet of pain medications, I felt as fragile and vulnerable as a leaf fluttering in the wind.

My strength came back slowly. Each day was a little better than the last, but I could never pinpoint how or why. I walked like an old woman, hunched over from too much life experience. My spine gradually straightened. The milk carton felt like a 50 pound weight. It grew lighter. The fog in my brain began to lift. I could stand for more than an hour, then three. The process was slow, encompassing the next month. Eventually it grew comical, as I struggled to pack up and move while under 5 pound weight restrictions.

Even so, I was healing, my body gently finding a way to put itself back together.

Scars have always been a part of me, surface remnants from surgeries I was too young to remember. I cannot imagine myself without them, my eyes glancing over them as if they were never there. With my new scars, my eyes linger, pausing at the unfamiliar scene laid out before me. The map of my chest has changed, as angry red lines cross my abdomen and travel around my side in one big swoop. In all, there are eight—five old, three new. I wonder how long it will be before I forget they are there.

While some people view scars as flaws or disfigurements, I view them as a symbol of strength, a badge of honor, a sign that I have lived. These scars hold my imperfect body together. Standing naked in front of the mirror after a shower, I traced a finger over my permanent lines. I imagined my muscles weaving themselves back together. I imagined being able to stretch and bend as I did before. I imagined these lines fading into the background of life.

I can put on a shirt and cover up my experiences, hiding them from the people I meet. Sometimes I forget they are just beneath the thin cloth, this part of me that few people get to see. When the fabric is lifted, the secret exposed, I don't feel self-conscious or ashamed. These scars tell my story. These scars have made me whole.

I have long held the belief that warm cookies, fresh from the oven, can heal both emotionally and physically. These Chocolate Banana Chip Cookies allow both flavors to shine in this chewy cookie. Banana chips are processed into fine pieces before mixing into the cookies, giving them a pronounced banana flavor without the softness or cake-like texture that comes from using fresh fruit. Combined with chocolate chips, these cookies become the cure to whatever ails you, whether it be a broken heart, broken body, or afternoon sweet tooth.

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Nutella Swirled Banana Bread

I've had quite the tumultuous relationship with Nutella. Since discovering I was highly allergic to tree nuts back in high school, I have been careful—and lucky—to avoid most incidents. While almonds are perfectly fine for me to eat (thank goodness), other tree nuts have been labeled with a big "Do Not Eat" sticker. My diagnosis has never bothered me too much and I rarely feel as if I am missing out. It wasn't until I moved to England when studying abroad that I experienced my first pang of tree nut jealousy.

When my friends all discovered Nutella for the first time, it quickly became a forbidden fruit in my eyes.

In the cool English winter, many an evening was spent around the kitchen stove, laughing and joking, as a jar of Nutella was passed from spoon to spoon. I would often stand off to the side with a glass of water, alternating between great interest and wariness at the jar in their hands. Eventually, my curiosity took over and I could no longer stand in the sidelines. As the jar of Nutella was ritually passed around the circle, this time I made certain it would make a stop at me. When I found the jar in my hands for the first time (and several concerned faces pointed my direction), I cradled the container in my hands, lifted it towards my nose, and breathed in the wonderful scent.

My friends would later affectionately refer to this regular practice as "huffing Nutella." My rationale was that if I couldn't eat it, at the very least I should be able to smell it.

It wasn't until I had an accidental encounter with Nutella (in which I unknowingly ate a slice of cake enclosed in a layer of it) and nothing bad happened that my curiosity for it was taken to another level. I knew I was seriously allergic to tree nuts, but if almonds could be an exception to the rule, was it possible for hazelnuts to do the same? It was several years later before I found myself and a jar of Nutella in the same room and I could give my theory a test. Though I do not recommend taking the risk I did to anyone for any reason, my experiment had a happy conclusion. Though I still rarely buy or steal a spoonful of Nutella from the jar just in case, a sale sign at the grocery started a chain of events that led to this swirled banana bread.

Though it has taken a long time to reach this point, I think you'll agree that it was worth the wait.

Nutella Swirled Banana Bread is the culmination of five years of daydreaming about Nutella while baking. A basic banana bread recipe is elevated by dark swirls of Nutella. Instead of being folded in the batter, the Nutella is melted and drizzled directly through the batter which lends pockets of gooey Nutella in the final product. Despite the large Nutella swirls, the bread rises and holds together well; the secret inside is only revealed when the first slice is cut.

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Banana Cinnamon Pancakes

Every so often, I forget to take time for myself. It is never intentional, but between work, school, and responsibilities, somehow "me time" gets pushed to the wayside. It can be weeks before I have realized what I have done. In some ways, this does not surprise me. Our culture glorifies being busy. You need to be doing it all right now. Our culture dictates that being busy is the only way to show your family and your coworkers how significant you are, how productive you are, or how important you are to the running of a business or a household. If you have extra time, then you are not "reaching your potential" or, as we have often been led to believe, you are simply being lazy.

All of this, of course, is not true.

While our culture may celebrate being busy, the reality is that we need time to ourselves, away from responsibilities, so that we can recharge and take a moment to enjoy life. When some level of perseverance is unavoidable, taking a moment to scribble "me time" onto the calendar can relieve the stress and exhaustion that comes from hard work.

I tend to go through periods of extreme busyness a few times a year (some avoidable, some not). If history is any indication for me, I am prone to overworking myself, taking on too much at once and realizing the consequences after it is too late. When I find myself frequently working on Friday and Saturday evenings just to keep up, the alarms in my head go off, giving me a signal that I need to make a change.

The alarms have been going off for a couple weeks already, warning me to slow down and take a break. This weekend I finally listened.

On Friday evening, instead of sitting down in front of the computer to get some work done, I went out and treated myself to my favorite drink, Vanilla Almond Coconut Boba Tea. After a week of getting less than six hours of sleep a night, I crawled into bed and went to sleep early. On Saturday I bought myself a couple new books—Paper Towns by John Green and Wild by Cheryl Strayed. Instead of writing lesson plans, I played board games with new and old friends late into the evening.

This morning, after rising with the sun, I took the time to make a batch of these Banana Cinnamon Pancakes before settling into an afternoon of catching up to do. I feel recharged and ready to face the next busy week ahead of me. It is weekends like this that remind me not to underestimate the power of "me time." Schedule a little time for yourself in the next week—you will feel grateful to have done so.

Banana Cinnamon Pancakes make for a hearty breakfast filled with familiar flavors. The pancakes are made with mashed bananas, whole wheat flour, and a good spoonful of cinnamon. The pancakes cook up fluffy and thick. A drizzle of maple syrup is all these pancakes need to turn them into an instant classic. I tried a few with miniature chocolate chips and would recommend it as well. Though simple, pancakes have a relaxing quality that wipes away the cold bowls of cereal from the previous week and replaces them with a warm, sweet memory.

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