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When I was 23 and newly married, I moved to England with a couple of duffel bags, a few boxes of wedding gifts, and my family’s banana bread recipe. Our marital kitchen was not much bigger than my bedroom closet back in the U.S. The fridge was not dissimilar to what I had in my college dorm, down to the (lack of) freezer space.

Nonetheless, as I waited to hear back about jobs I’d applied for, I bided my time by baking. I tried out kitchen gadgets, roamed the aisles of supermarkets, and came to grips with U.K. metric conversions. And that tiny freezer quickly became an incubator of blackened bananas.

The banana bread recipe was my aunt’s, who passed it along to my mother, who handed it down to me. It was a reminder of home, a familiar treat I could make in my newlywed home so far from my childhood home.

It called for six bananas, which is more than most recipes. The key to moist, cake-like bread is overripe bananas – the blacker and spottier the peels, the better. So, while most people ditched their bananas at the first sign of age, I held on, knowing the sickly sweet smell and softness would turn into something special.

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