in pursuit of pleasure and chocolate banana cream pie

we should all be romancing ourselves!!!

Hey, stranger.

On Tuesday afternoon all I could think about was banana cream pie. Chocolate banana cream pie. I knew exactly where I wanted to get it from and exactly what I was going to wear and exactly what book I was going to read while I ate it. The only thing I was unsure of is how early is too early to eat dessert alone with oneself. 6pm? 5pm? I hate admitting this because I think it makes me sound very un-chic, very un-European, but I like to eat dinner at a bright and early 5:30pm most nights of the week. I can’t help it, I love dinner and usually am impatient to eat it.

My obsession with this cream pie came after 3 events unfolded right after each other. Firstly, I read Allie’s weekly post where she raved about Urban Hill, a restaurant I’d been eyeing, which then prompted me to Yelp the menu (naturally), and that’s when I spotted it: the chocolate cream pie. I could see the banana chunks sticking out of the pudding, beckoning me. Secondly, I read Glynnis MacNicol’s I’m Mostly Here to Enjoy Myself¹ and decided, quite suddenly, that there are things to be enjoyed! Meals to be had! Gardens and museums and concerts to see! There is pleasure in being alive! It should be my job to pursue it. Thirdly, I came across this passage from an old piece of mine, moments:

“Sunday, February 4th. — This month I will love myself. I will comb my hair and brush my teeth. I will tie my laces extra tight and zip my jacket up to my chin. I will wash behind my ears and rub lotion into my knees. I will let myself laugh and let myself cry. I will turn my face towards the sun when it comes out and breathe deeply on the inhale. I will remember to stand up straight and unclench my jaw. I will do my laundry and hug my stuffed animals at night. I will tell the people I love that I love them and I will let myself love new ones. I will make myself coffee just the way I like it and buy milk chocolate with toffee in it. I will run as best I can and make sure to stretch after. I will feed myself warm food and tuck myself into bed. This month I will love myself.”

I was touched at my own words, my own desperation in the pursuit of learning how to cherish myself. It all came together after that— as part of my attempt to coax the most enjoyment from my life I would romance myself with a new book, an opportunity to wear a cute dress, and pie.

The plan was afoot… oh, about 3 weeks ago. I kept putting off my date night with the excuse that I didn’t have time, or had other plans, or wanted to stay in. I ghosted myself with the fervor of a man in his 20’s who’s terrified to commit. But no longer! Tonight, chocolate banana cream pie is on the menu.

I decided to go at 5:30pm, directly after work, because fuck it, I am un-chic sometimes! And not European in the slightest! The dress I had planned to wear all those weeks ago was still just as exciting to me, so I took my time getting ready. I leaned into the process, playing music and putting eye masks on and slinking around in a robe after I showered.

Although I am quite skilled at doing things alone, I have never eaten a sit-down meal by myself. At a restaurant. Without any distractions. The thought of doing so made me uncomfortable enough that I decided it would certainly not bring me pleasure, and stopped at a bookstore en route to the restaurant. Buying myself gifts? Definitely pleasurable. Reading a new (to me) Jane Austen book? Also pleasurable.

Walking out of the bookstore, Mansfield Park tucked under my arm, I had an awkward encounter with a group of 30 something’s all standing on the steps, neatly posed for a photo. Earlier, I heard the group talking amongst themselves about the type of smut they liked to read, loudly. They had been in the section lined with dark covers, shirtless men, the title a bright and garish purple. For whatever reason they did not seem to hear my desperate attempt to get out of the background so I hopped over the rail like some sort of cretin kid. I felt suddenly shy, then, with my Jane Austen and their kinky sex books. As a lifelong reader, I often feel a need to become everyone’s friend inside a bookstore and I was afraid my dramatic exit from the steps was taken as me sneering at them, “I read Throne of Glass in middle school.” The internet debate between romance readers and literature readers has addled my brain beyond belief.

Eventually, the moment had arrived. I had been seated at the bar, the bartender barely saying hello to me before I told him, “I know what I want.” He raised his brows. “I hear you have a banana cream pie.” He smiled and gave me a glass of the new dessert wine they had in stock. In no time I was pages into my book, half a glass of wine in, and then there it was. The chocolate banana cream pie. Placed in front of me by a waitress who stopped, touched me on the shoulder and whispered, “Pie, wine and a book? This is my ideal night.” We laughed and then I turned to the main event.

This goddamn banana cream pie. It had a flaky crust atop a salt caramel cream base that was so decadent I had to stop myself from moaning when I took my first bite. The banana pudding was light and airy, sickly sweet, with ripe chunks of banana. Placed on top of the pudding was a dollop of what I feel safe calling chocolate mousse. Little curling pieces of dark chocolate were sprinkled on top that crunched deliciously when bitten. It took me almost an hour to finish it, with a strength of will I didn’t know I possessed. If I had been alone the pie would have been gone in 2 minutes flat. I ate the pie with care, as if it was the last meal I’ll have for awhile. When there was one bite left on the plate, a server came by.

“Are you going to have the last bite or can I get that plate out of your way?”

“Of course I’m going to eat it!” My tone suggested I was panicked and a little bit insulted by his suggestion. I was.

He held his hands up in mock surrender, “I wouldn’t dare take it from you.”

I took that as my sign that taking an hour to eat a piece of pie is ridiculous.

Reader, I have to be honest with you. That pie did not solve all my problems. It didn’t solve even one. In fact, it gave me a problem, since I am famously lactose intolerant. Subconsciously, I had hoped that a romantic evening to myself would help with some of the struggles I’m going through. In my head I would emerge victorious from tonight having loved myself, prioritized pleasure, and the world would right itself. It did not. But I don’t think it needs to, to be honest. I think lovely, over the top, romanticized moments can be just that: moments. They can compliment our lives, paint a little pink spot in a dark canvas, be the light dusting of chocolate on an otherwise perfect pie.

I know that people say this all the time and it’s a bit of a cliché, but we should be dating ourselves more often. Finding out what we like, don’t like. Taking ourselves to dessert after a bad week. Indulging in the things we love, the things we want, need. Cooking ourselves our favorite dishes and leaving them in the sink for tomorrow us to clean up. Being in pursuit of pleasure now, not later. We are the greatest romances of our lives.

Maybe this doesn’t look like pie and a book for you, maybe it does. I do know that I left the restaurant and my heart felt lighter than it did when I arrived. I drove home with the windows down and left my hair float around me like will-o-wisps. There is a very unique pleasure, I think, in having a lovely moment with yourself and remembering that there are things to be enjoyed. Meals to be had. Gardens and museums and concerts to see. There is pleasure in being alive.

xoxo,

Evie

1. I found myself having to set MacNicol’s book down every chapter or so, overcome by the feeling I get anytime I read something that reaches right through me and into the ooey gooey bits. My god, most of my girlfriends and I will inevitably have a conversation about the terrifying ordeal of aging, and how, as women, aging seems to be something wholly different than aging as a man. What a tragedy that is. There is a lot of fantastic writing on this subject, a personal favorite being Susan Sontag’s essay The Double Standard of Aging. But MacNicol doesn’t discuss aging as a terrifying occasion, instead she spends her trip to Paris savoring le chocolat chaud and dining with friends and strolling along parks and dancing to live music and reveling in the joy that is knowing herself so well at 47. I highly recommend reading it.