It’s all over the grocery stores. It’s in the targeted ads. It was there almost as soon as Christmas was over, waiting until your spending-fatigue had abated. Valentine’s Day shit.
I think it’s about three weeks from now so we’re in the full capitalist swing of it. I’m getting ads every day for absolute garbage gifts-for-him, as if he wants a belt from me or a fake roll of Kodak film that pulls out to reveal color negatives of family photos. I think he’d probably just like some fucking peace and quiet and a blowjob.
This is the time where I’ll start getting videos on my feed for things to cook for a romantic dinner. Steak, seafood, chocolate, etc. We will waddle off to bed, bloated from our rich meals, and try not to fall asleep without having sex with our partner/spouse. Or worse, maybe earlier in the day, when we didn’t have a food coma and things looked optimistically romantic, we had promised oral sex.
I’m just kidding, everyone. It’s okay.
The seafood thing I think I understand. Oysters have held a title spot on the list of edible aphrodisiacs for a long time. Briny, mucous things - no wonder, they’re basically a vagina in a shell. But the steak? The chocolate?
Well, actually, chocolate was once considered an aphrodisiac. I know you saw what it did to that little town in Chocolat. It was exotic, came from a hot rainforest and was bound to drum up literal heat in the body. Now it’s common and its powers have waned. Or have they? Here they are, popping up this time of year like algorithm based clockwork. And here I am, so mad that every year it works and I’m trying to decide what chocolate-based dessert to be spoon-fed.
Books, too. I went into a local indie bookseller before the start of the weekend and found a table full of topical sexual-interest novels. But not just novels, I actually bought one called Kink, a collection of short stories. I also saw this very book on display over the weekend in the window of a cute little sex shop in the city. At the time of writing, I’ve only read a couple of the stories. Since I’ve been able to put the book down, it’s safe to say it’s not as smutty as I had hoped.
So now I’ve got sexcapades to read, I’ve got chocolate on my mind. What am I going to make? When I think about sexy dessert it would be ultra-rich, like a flourless red wine chocolate gateau, or maybe ultra smooth - chocolate mousse or creme brûlée. Maybe something with mascarpone cream - tiramisu? It can’t be too sweet. It should be bitter, like I am this time of year. This year I’m going with a budino - wait for it - tart.
Not content with eating ultra-thick, smooth, chocolatey custard just in a glass like a normal person, I’ll bake it into a crust so that I can ingest it like branches into a wood chipper.
The tart part is probably self-explanatory, but maybe you aren’t familiar with budino, which is an Italian custard-based dessert. Think about triple-dense pudding or unleavened chocolate mousse. It’s that. Exceptionally rich, a little goes a long way. Unsweetened whipped cream helps, but I’ve added rum.
I did a practice run with the tart for a Sunday dinner. I have a lovely matrilineal family trait - I will tell you exactly what is wrong with something I’ve made before I give it to you. And I promise to keep that up here: this tart’s crust sucked. I wanted Digestives, but as usual they are hard to find. I did find Hob Nobs and and I thought, “same diff.” Reader, it is not the same diff. They are too sweet. The chocolate on them really bound the crust together in a greasy way. They were way sweeter than what I was looking for. Next time I will just take the time to make a really nice tart pastry, like a pate sucrée.
I think this is what I’ll go for on Valentine’s Day evening after I suck down a steak au poivre and haricot verts and a liter of red wine. With half a pound of chocolate, half a dozen egg yolks, and a pint of cream in just the dessert I think I’ll probably be out for the count on Valentine’s Day evening - but don’t worry, I’ll be very satisfied.