Cyrus was a man who loved his zucchini.
It had little to do with the vegetable itself; while it had a light, airy taste, Cyrus rarely noticed the flavour of the zucchini, and consumed it only for the nutrition it afforded. Nor indeed was it related to the zucchini’s phallic shape and obscene potential.
Cyrus’ love of zucchini came purely from zucchini bread.
Like banana bread, zucchini bread was a dense, sweet loaf of carbs and deliciousness. Cyrus ate it every chance he got, and was amazed at how few shops carried it. Every little cafe seemed to have a crappy, desiccated banana bread wrapped in plastic, but zucchini breads were few and far between. Perhaps it was the inherent moisture of the zucchini that prevented this, leading to quicker moulding or fewer purchases. Or maybe, Cyrus thought, they just didn’t know what they were missing. Probably if Tim Hortons or Starbucks started carrying some pumpkin zucchini crap, everyone would jump on the bandwagon, but that had not yet happened.
Cyrus’ zucchini breading, then, was relegated to his occasional trips home to his mother – a renowned loaf-maker – and the odd time someone brought a zucchini bread to a potluck.
He had tried, on one occasion, to make a zucchini bread for himself. His mother sent him the recipe, and though his loaf turned out salty and misshapen, he still ate the entirety of it in a single sitting, watching reruns of Who’s the Boss.
Cyrus loved zucchini for its bread-like potential, but for the sake of his own health, he never kept it at home.