Elvis, eat your heart out.  Last night, in the midst of a series of weird cravings, I began asking my boyfriend a litany of questions regarding the cooking possibilities and technicalities of bananas. (For reference, I’ve hit the modern girl’s jackpot in that my nerdy snuggle buddy and partner in crime is also a chef in training. Yes, I snagged a man who can cook.)

In any event,  I found myself with an unavoidable craving for  sweet, squishy, somewhat caramelized bananas. A grocery store trip later, I was chopping bananas. Though vowing to make the concoction on my own, I asked Tom questions endlessly. How much sugar did I need? How much water? What temperature? Should I stir, or let the slurry sit?

Not surprisingly, Tom took control of the spoon. Grateful, I gazed on as I happily transitioned from hungry cook to giddy sous chef. Once the bananas were done and plated in the bowl, I looked for something else to add.  Didn’t Elvis like peanut butter and bananas? The peanut butter jar stared at me.  About to spoon some into the bowl, Tom stopped me, asking for that scoop in the pan. Huh? I scooped. He asked for milk. I poured. Before I knew it, he had made an unbelievably amazing caramelized peanut butter sauce and poured it over my bananas.

Topped with a few freshly cut bananas, the dessert was complete. I don’t think I’ve ever completed the trifecta of eye roll + omgods + mmmm foodgasms  so many times in such short succession before.  I may have gorged on it last night, but I’m craving it again already.