Little Belle's Mama

When I first moved away from the Philippines, one of the foods I missed the most was saba bananas. They were always a part of home, whether in the form of turon, bananacue, or boiled on a rainy afternoon. The unique taste and texture of saba made them more than just fruit. They were a comfort, something that reminded me of family gatherings, street food stalls, and the little things that made everyday life warm and familiar. So when I found myself far away from home, I often looked for something that could bring me even a little bit closer to that feeling. That search led me to an unexpected place, the Indian shop near where I live.

I was wandering through the store one afternoon, not looking for anything in particular, when I saw a pile of bananas that looked different from the usual sweet yellow ones. They were larger, thicker, and had a firmness to their skin that reminded me a little of saba. I wasn’t sure what they were called or where exactly they came from. They might be from Africa or imported from other parts of the world. I bought a bunch, curious to see if they could give me something close to the saba I grew up with.

The first thing I did when I got home was simple. I boiled a few of them, just the way we would do with saba. The smell filled the kitchen, and while I knew it wasn’t going to be the exact same, it already gave me a small spark of excitement. When I took my first bite, the taste surprised me. It was not saba, but it was close enough to bring back memories. The texture was starchy and satisfying, the flavor mild but hearty. In that moment I felt like I had been transported back to the Philippines, sitting at the table with family, dipping boiled saba into sugar or bagoong, laughing over the little things.

After that, I began experimenting. I fried some slices, letting them turn golden in the pan, and sprinkled sugar over them. Suddenly I had something that felt just like bananacue. The caramelized sugar stuck to the outside, crisp and sweet, while the inside stayed soft and filling. It reminded me of walking down the street back home, buying skewers of bananacue from a vendor, eating them while still warm from the oil. I didn’t think I would find that feeling again so far away, but this new banana gave me that gift.

On another day I cut the bananas into small finger-like pieces, mixed them with a bit of flour, and fried them again. They came out crunchy and delightful, almost like the little snacks I would buy from neighborhood stores at school when I was younger. Sometimes I kept things simple, just slicing the bananas and frying them plain, no sugar, no coating. Even then they were satisfying, the kind of food you can snack on anytime of the day without getting tired of it. Each method of cooking reminded me of a different version of home. It was like unlocking memories through taste.

What I found beautiful about this experience is how food carries emotions with it. I did not expect these bananas, bought casually at a shop that was not even Filipino, to mean so much to me. Yet every time I cooked them, I felt connected to my culture. It showed me that sometimes it is not about finding the exact thing we miss, but about finding something close enough to stir the same feelings. These bananas may not be saba, but they hold the power to make me feel like I am back in the Philippines. That feeling is priceless.

Another thing I noticed is how versatile they are. Just like saba, these bananas can adapt to different cooking methods. They don’t fall apart easily, which makes them perfect for boiling, frying, or mixing with other ingredients. They have enough starchiness to feel hearty, yet enough natural sweetness to be enjoyable on their own. I have even thought of trying to make turon with them, wrapping them in spring roll wrappers with sugar and frying until golden. I imagine the taste would not be exactly like the turon I grew up with, but close enough to satisfy the craving.

When I eat these bananas, I think about how food travels across the world. Maybe they came from Africa, maybe from India, maybe from another place entirely. Wherever their origin, they have made their way into my kitchen, filling a space that I thought could only be filled by saba. It makes me realize how connected different cultures are through food. In the Philippines we use saba in so many dishes, and in other countries people have their own versions of cooking starchy bananas. Even if the names and recipes are different, there is a shared love for the same ingredient.

This discovery also made me more open to exploring other alternatives. Sometimes we hold on so tightly to what we miss that we forget the joy of finding something new. I could have dismissed these bananas just because they weren’t saba, but instead I gave them a chance. Now they have become a part of my regular shopping list. Every time I go back to the Indian shop, I look for them. When I bring them home, I already imagine what I will cook and how it will bring me a little comfort, a little piece of home in every bite.

Food has a way of healing homesickness. It is not just about taste, but about the stories and feelings attached to it. With every fried banana, every boiled piece, I feel closer to my roots. It is not just nostalgia. It is also about appreciation. I appreciate that in a different country, in a different culture, I am still able to connect to my Filipino identity through something as simple as a banana. That is the beauty of food. It crosses borders, adapts to kitchens, and speaks a language of comfort that everyone understands.

Sometimes I laugh at myself because I know these bananas are not actually saba, but I still call them my alternative saba bananas. The name itself makes me happy. It is a reminder that while I may be far from home, I can still create my own version of it here. When I share them with my husband and daughter, I tell them about bananacue and turon, about how saba is so common in the Philippines, and how these bananas are my little secret to bringing those flavors to life again. They enjoy hearing the stories, and they enjoy eating the bananas too.

Now I realize that I no longer see these bananas just as substitutes. They have earned their own place in my kitchen. They are my bridge between the present and the past, between where I am now and where I came from. Every time I cook them, I feel grateful for the simple joy they bring. They remind me that even if I cannot always have the exact taste of home, I can still find comfort in what is available to me. And in many ways, that makes the experience even more meaningful.

My alternative to saba bananas might never fully replace the real thing, but they give me a feeling that is just as precious. With each bite, I am reminded of the Philippines, of family, of tradition, and of the joy of eating together. That is enough to make me feel at home, no matter where I am.