Issue 19 | My Sweet Something
On succumbing to dessert as pleasure.
There was Betty Crocker, and then there was my grandma, Rita Hillocks. Thanks to my father’s mother who raised me, dessert made special appearances throughout my suburban, central Florida childhood. I grew up watching tape recordings of older cousins' wedding ceremonies, intrigued by the pomp and circumstance: bridesmaids in matching taffeta gowns, updos securely held with bobby pins, and a three-tiered black cake, Grandma's signature. During family gatherings, my aunties cosigned her baking skills, sharing fond memories in high-pitched, sing-songy Guyanese accents. The kitchen cabinet, just left of the oven, was a treasure chest filled with homemaker gadgets like the Oster hand mixer and stainless steel piping tips. On the shelf below were tubes of assorted food coloring, Demerara sugar, and expired edible pearls from her large-format baking days. In the pantry, two large tins, painted to look like buildings from an imaginary English town, held all-purpose flour and white sugar. Beside them, fruits soaked for Christmas black cake.
On the day of my birthday, I eagerly anticipated the Funfetti cake Grandma would decorate with Pillsbury vanilla frosting. Ahead of my party guests’ arrival, I watched “Lion King” or “Cinderella” (the one with Brandy) from my VHS collection while Grandma mixed a punch and organized bowls of Chex Mix and cheese doodles. In tandem, my grandpa, Clarence, went through his morning routine, flipping through the Food Lion circular and reviewing the stocks and bonds from the John Hancock prospectus. Just before breakfast, he’d stick a needle of insulin into his belly, hold the orange cap between his teeth, and toss his daily test strip in the garbage. Perhaps that’s why the sight of blood doesn’t startle me. While Grandma didn’t take insulin, she dutifully kept up her prescriptions and three square meals with little salt and even less sugar. Her baking was a treat for others to enjoy. As the smell of nearly finished cake wafted into the living room, I walked to the counter to take on my role, inserting the butter knife tip into the cake’s slightly-cracked center. A clean knife meant it was time for the frosting.
Call it conditioning, but I didn’t have much of a sweet tooth. My birthday was an exception, when I’d flirt with the sticky, fluffy frosting mixture, sneaking tastes with my fingertips. In the days following, my sister and I would enjoy slices of cake for breakfast alongside fried eggs and a cup of Milo, sweetened slightly with a touch of evaporated milk.
When Grandma felt for sometin’ sweet, baking spices, brown sugar, and fresh coconuts took over the kitchen countertop. I’d watch her grate cassava with such focus, her bicep and forearm flexing until the root vegetable diminished to a small knob. A few hours later, cassava pone, a popular Guyanese snack and dense pudding with crisp edges, appeared from the oven. Most days, treats aligned with my grandparents’ dietary restrictions. They came in the form of diet Chek sodas, frozen Rich Golden Layer Cake from Pepperidge Farm, and the gallon tub of sugar-free Neapolitan that towered in our freezer. Even though he wasn’t supposed to, Grandpa would sneak an extra scoop after dinner. At church potlucks, his self-control disappeared while Rita murmured nearby, reminding her husband of his disease.
The woman who raised my mother, my Grandma Bea on the other hand, enjoyed dessert regularly. I met her as a child, but only stayed in touch over the phone as an adult. I’d ask what she was up to, and she’d say that she was enjoying “a bowl of ice cream” and watching a television show before bed. I couldn’t imagine such an indulgent ritual as part of a grandma’s routine. To savor the sticky, sweet, coated, creamy and sprinkled, was messy and mischievous. The older I got, the more my grandpa’s ailments took over, and the less dessert appeared.
During the height of quarantine, I enjoyed weekly to-go dinners from my favorite restaurants. One night, I ordered from Clay, an Uptown spot with a seasonal menu. Under the brown containers that held my fennel salad, grass-fed beef burger, and side of turmeric-roasted cauliflower, I flagged an extra box at the bottom of the paper bag, worried someone else’s food made its way in my order.
I gasped in surprise at the three miniature blood orange donuts stacked perfectly atop another. I interpreted this gesture as a nod of gratitude from the owners, who’d become industry friends over the years. I bit into one, then sunk my teeth into the glazed dough savoring the hint of citrus and sugar. I smiled to myself: A sweet little something, just for me, at the end of my day.
Since that quarantine moment, I’ve been brow-deep in a love affair with the bakers and pastry chefs of New York City. The banana pudding at Magnolia Bakery became my ideal dessert; layers of ripe banana, vanilla wafers, and whipped cream. Its nod to the South gave me comfort with each spoonful. I’d sneak a taste right after breakfast or in place of a caffeinated beverage in the afternoon.
My Instagram algorithm aligned with my dessert habit, too. Alongside memes and mental health content, I saw pop-up promotions and menu offerings. Enter Bad Habit, an ice cream pop-up birthed in the pandemic, that hand-churned pints of brown butter and limited-edition spiced hot chocolate. At dinners I hosted for friends, I’d serve a scoop or two for dessert. I savored the layers of rich cacao at the top of the palate, then cinnamon, and finally, a touch of heat akin to cayenne on the finish. Sophistication, unlocked! Restaurants-turned-pantries-and-provision shops meant fresh desserts, too. A box of Rancho Meladuco dates transported me to my days taking work trips to California wine country. Thanks to Natoora, I played around with at-home plating using fruits available at peak season. I flirted with the bright colors, subtle aromas, and firm skin pulled back that revealed sweet fruit. A PR mailer introduced me to the coveted Oiishi berry that touted a nostalgic candy fragrance from my childhood.
I looked up and suddenly, I was a dessert person.
Pleasure is more than debauchery, bacchanalia, and excess. I’m talking about the intimate instances that reorient or inspire us to change our mind; the "for-your-ears-only" whispers, the visual stimulation of a well-plated pastry and a well-dressed human, and the foreplay of new pheromones and flavors. Aesthetics aside, it feels good to acknowledge that ping of desire and actually fulfill it. It feels good to honor a want, and choose to do so out loud and in enjoyment. We deserve to experience its full spectrum.
Now that we're outside outside, I savor sweet moments that much more. At Pelah Kitchen pop-ups, I take care not to limit myself: I order exactly three slices of cake every visit. A toasted coconut slice, for right then and there. The moist texture, complemented with mascarpone whipped cream, is reminiscent of Grandma’s homemade cakes and transports me to Rita’s kitchen. The cardamom-spiced carrot cake is saved for dessert at home, where I make a chai or mushroom coffee to sip after changing into my negligee. My third slice is a recommendation from owner Jenneh Kaikai that I gift to a friend, a nod to the generosity I feel each time I visit Jenneh.
I like to settle in at the Gage & Tollner bar to enjoy my own company. There’s an energy in their mahogany wood interiors that shelters us patrons, strangers, for an hour or so. I order one appetizer and the slice of Caroline Schiff’s kumquat-candied coconut cake knowing damn well I’ve got food at home. This cake, light, fluffy, layered in cream, is a soft contrast to its structured interiors. The hum of blended conversations vibrates against my eardrums as I take the last few bites. This backward dinner, my sweet little something, just for me, at the end of my day.
Edited by Osayi Endolyn
Eat, Pray, Love
In each issue, I’ll wrap up with recommendations that are make my life more delicious, grounding, and fun. Discover your next dining destination or dose of inspiration.
I’m on your Apple device—I launched a Guide on Apple Maps as part of a new series called Let’s Eat. It highlights the 15 restaurants I’m loving in NYC right now, and I update it monthly. Check it out and save the guide for your next date night. Better yet, share it with your boo, and let them plan it.
Past Lives—The film, not the concept. I enjoy the gush and pang that romance movies emote. This one depicts the soft tension of love between childhood sweethearts and the nuance of their reunion years later. Go see a matinee.
Take aura photo at Magic Jewelry—I realize I’m a bit late to this popular thing-to-do in NYC, but I found the experience to be incredibly grounding as someone who is expanding their spiritual and self-study journey. My recent capture and reading highlighted my intuition, something I’m listening to much more these days.
Be well, all.
xx,
Shanika
P.S. I’m on Threads.