The Sweetest Fear

Last night, I finally did something I’ve avoided for decades: I faced a fear.

It’s a fear that sounds silly when you say it out loud—but it’s real all the same.

I’m afraid of a fancy dessert called Cherries Jubilee.

On the surface, that sounds ridiculous. A dessert? Really?

But here’s why it isn’t ridiculous to me.

Back in 1979, when I was eight years old, I was growing up in Coral Gables, Florida—a place where the streets are canopied by banyan trees and everything feels a little more “storybook” than the rest of Miami. My grandfather, Eddie Stephens, Sr., owned one of the early men’s clothing stores in Miami and was well-known around town. That Thanksgiving, he took our entire family to the Riviera Country Club—a fancy club in a fancy city, right in the heart of South Florida.

After dinner, we wandered to the dessert station. One of the options was Cherries Jubilee: cherries, vanilla ice cream, and sherry—served flambé. The flaming part is where my childhood brain filed it away under Never Again.

I walked up to the station and an “82-year-young” lady stepped in line behind me. Being a young gentleman, I let her go first.

That’s when it happened.

They poured the hot, flaming concoction into her dish, and it overflowed onto her dress, which—because it was 1979—was almost certainly made of polyester. Add the era’s generous use of hair product, and what unfolded next happened in a flash: she caught fire.

Instead of doing what we all learned—stop, drop, and roll—she ran.

I still remember someone yanking a tablecloth from a nearby dessert table and tackling her with it to smother the flames. And I remember something so weird it’s burned into my memory: chocolate éclairs flying through the air as the tablecloth was pulled away.

Bizarre visual, I know. But I was eight.

I also remember the smell.

I’ve never smelled anything like it since. I hope I never do again.

So no—this isn’t an unjustified fear. It’s been living in the background of my life ever since.

The good news is: Cherries Jubilee doesn’t exactly show up every day. But every once in a while—on a cruise, at a fancy restaurant—it would appear in my field of vision like some flaming little ghost from 1979. And when it did, I’d get hit with the full-body response: queasiness, unease, and that strange “olfactory flashback” feeling you can’t talk yourself out of.

For years, my strategy was simple: avoid the Jubilee.

Then came Mitch Simmons.

About twenty years ago, I was having dinner at Bern’s Steak House in Tampa—a place so fancy it has a separate area just for dessert. At the time, I was serving as the Florida Regional Vice President for my fraternity, Delta Sigma Pi, and Mitch—the Regional Vice President for Georgia—was dining with me.

Over the years, Mitch became one of my best friends. It’s been incredible to watch him rise all the way to Grand President of Delta Sigma Pi, and I had the honor of serving as President and Chair of the Delta Sigma Pi Leadership Foundation during his tenure—right around our fraternity’s 100-year anniversary. We did big things during that period: renting out the Smithsonian Air & Space Museum for the centennial celebration and raising the money to refurbish our headquarters in Oxford, Ohio.

If you know Mitch, you know this: he will push you. Sometimes gently. Sometimes like a friendly linebacker. But always for a reason.

That night at Bern’s, Mitch ordered Cherries Jubilee.

He could tell something was up, so I told him the story. And—credit where it’s due—he changed his order that night.

But the pushing never stopped.

For the next twenty years, Mitch would occasionally nudge the topic back into my life. A little tease here. A pointed joke there. Not to be cruel—more like a coach who knows you’re capable of more than you’re letting yourself do.

Then, on August 8, 2013, at another fancy dinner, Mitch turned up the heat.

After 33 years, I finally did it.

Together, we ordered the Cherries Jubilee—served as a dessert for two.

And guess what?

I overcame my fear.

It wasn’t hard. Not really.

I just needed the right push. (Okay—maybe a shove.)

So I’m grateful to Mitch—not just for the friendship, but for the steady encouragement to step outside my comfort zone and face something that was genuinely real to me, even if it sounds absurd on paper.

Looking back, I wish I’d done it twenty years earlier.

But last night was the night.

I looked a fear in the eye… and walked away a wiser man.

And—plot twist—

it was delicious.