"London in the summer of 1943…Life was beginning to resume some degree of normality, despite the bomb damage everywhere, despite the rationing, the blackout, and the thin, poor paper on which books were printed. The Germans had been turned back at Stalingrad, the Allies had landed in Sicily; it might take years, but victory was now certain.
One sign of this, for me, was the fact that my father was given, through a series of intermediaries, an unheard-of thing, a banana from North Africa. None of us had seen a banana since the start of the war, and so my father divided it, sacramentally, into seven equal segments: one each for my mother and himself, one for Auntie Birdie, and one apiece for my brothers and myself. The tiny segment was placed, like a Host, on the tongue, then savored slowly as it was swallowed. Its taste was voluptuous, almost ecstatic, at once a reminder and symbol of times past and an anticipation of times to come, an earnest, a token, perhaps, that I had come home to stay."
Uncle Tungsten: Memories of a Chemical Boyhood
by Oliver Sacks