Bananas sound so tropical and dreamy, right? Like sipping something cold under a palm while the breeze smells like sunscreen. What they don’t tell you is that growing bananas in South Florida is more like babysitting a bunch of leafy toddlers who eat too much and hog all the water.
When we first planted ours, I thought, “Oh, this will be fun.” Fast forward two years and now we’ve got a little banana jungle shading half the yard. The humidity down here makes them grow like they’re on steroids. Which is great, but also means if you ignore them, they’ll flop over like a drama queen in summer heat. Bananas want steady water, and if you skimp, those big green leaves start looking ragged fast. I learned that lesson one July after we went away for a weekend and came home to plants that looked like they had been through a hurricane—not an actual hurricane, just my neglect.
Fertilizer is another must. These things are hungry. Josh teases me that I baby them more than I baby him, and honestly, he’s not wrong. I toss compost, manure, and basically anything that looks like it might make them happy. And when they do get happy? You’ll know. One day you’re weeding, and the next day there’s this giant purple flower hanging down, like some alien spaceship landed in your yard. That’s your signal—bananas are on the way.
The trickiest part? Keeping the clumps under control. Bananas send out pups (baby plants), and if you don’t thin them, suddenly it looks like Jurassic Park back there. Ethan actually pretends it is Jurassic Park and hides his toy dinosaurs between the stalks. Which is adorable until I trip over one trying to chop down an extra pup.
So yes, bananas are a bit demanding, but the first time you cut down a whole bunch and hang it up on the porch, you’ll forgive them. The kids grab bananas straight off the stalk like it’s Halloween candy, and even Josh admits it’s pretty great. It’s messy, a little wild, but somehow that makes it taste better. Kind of like everything else around here.
