Ah, Valentine’s Day evening at UofT—when the couples of the school venture into the city to partake in our culture’s foremost celebration of love, and the singles slouch dejectedly into the dining hall, trying not to look at their calendars. Reader, as much as it pains me to admit it, I was a member of that pitiable crowd, and dinner that night was an extraordinarily bizarre experience, featuring culinary architecture, theoretical cannibalism, and existential contemplation brought on by the promise of a chocolate fountain.
Our story begins in Old Vic, where the Jewison class had just finished a gruelling two-hour handwritten test. It was only 5 pm, and the general consensus among my friend group was that it would be best for our physical and mental health to rest before dinner. However, all personal concerns were thoroughly defenestrated as we were texted a picture of Burwash’s Valentine’s Day dessert buffet, sending us scrambling towards the dining hall like Pavlovian hounds. As we entered, absentmindedly filling our plates with the pasta we were societally obligated to eat before descending upon the desserts like buzzards, I noticed the prevalence of singles in the hall, whether chatting among friends or in the headphone-clad, hunched-over pose I knew so well from high school. I was slightly melancholic that I was not among the couples out living it up in the city proper, but also thankful for the decreased competition at the crêpe bar. We sat down, plates filled with a perfunctory portion of pasta and enough cake to incite the French Revolution. Settling in, my friend shared with us a tantalising rumour that would come to define our night: apparently, his friend at the student’s office told him that there would be a chocolate fountain coming to the dining hall extremely soon. Enthused, we resolved to wait around until it made its appearance.
Two hours later, we had seen nothing of the chocolate fountain. Having long since exhausted all normal topics of conversation, my friends were now enthusiastically debating which of us would be eaten first in a desperate survival situation. Due to my apathetic sensibility and lack of discernible survival skills, I was quickly chosen as the sacrifice. As they continued to debate who would go next, I attempted to build a tower of desserts high enough to block out the sight of the laughing couple two tables over. With no architecture majors around to advise, my leaning tower of pastry quickly collapsed, and I scanned the buffet again for any sign of the chocolate fountain, which still had not shown itself. The group questioned the validity of my friend’s contact, and he reassured us of their reliability, exhorting us to wait for the last half hour before giving up hope.
As you might expect, the last half hour passed with no appearance of the elusive fountain. Feeling like Ponce de León, we stood up to leave with hearts unfilled, hands unheld, and strawberries undipped. As we filed out into the night air, I broke through my dejection to see the happy couples flooding back into the quad, arms filled with gifts and clothes adorned with roses. Noticing their jubilant faces, I could no longer begrudge them their connection or lament my own experience. Looking around at the paper hearts adorning the Burwash walls, I summoned up a spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, this time next year, I’d find myself in the company of true love—or at the very least, liquid chocolate.
So funny!