When I was young, I’d take a small white ceramic bowl from the cupboard, intended for our pet rats, and start pulling out what ingredients from the fridge I craved: half a banana, a scoop of peanut butter (crunchy of course), some chocolate sauce, a sprinkling of granola perhaps. Whatever felt right at the moment, I’d mush it all together in the bowl, a heterogenous dish of texture and flavor. Then I’d sit down, peacefully, and eat it with a spoon, unaware of the critics that