Valentine’s Day is a day filled with cards, flowers, romantic dinners, chocolate desserts, and champagne. Oh, not for me. For other people. Some people get lots of candy and pastries cut into fancy heart shapes. Not me. Not anymore. All past attempts to get in the holiday spirit fall flat so trust me when I say its best this way.
This year I am content surfing around the ‘net checking out the pretty pastries and crafts everyone ELSE is posting today. (I never knew Red Velvet Cake was still as popular and as controversial as ever? Note to self: turn this into an ice cream.) Everyone really got their inner Martha on today and I’m oh so happy for all of them. I’m also happy for those who bought Williams Sonoma stock as profits on hear-shaped pastry cutters, brownie pans, and dishes, must be high.
My Valentine’s-recovery therapy depends on complete and total abstinence from even the tiniest trappings of Valentine preparation and dining. My support group insists that when I see anything heart shaped I am to just say ‘no, thank you’ and move along.
So no cute food for me today. This means no salmon cream on heart shaped toasts like those I made for “W” the night he decided to break up with me in 1994. He came crawling back later only to break up with me again and crawl back again, etc. etc. Oh, and I certainly won’t be making any heart-shaped raviolis with pink vodka cream sauce for my man tonight. No siree. Too many memories of my first love Dr. Frank and night he…. no, I’ll save that story for another year. The raviolis are impressive (and easy)Valentine’s Day cooking but I won’t be making them tonight.
I won’t even cop to my mom’s recipe for a Coeur a la Creme. Tonight I would even refuse a glass of my favorite: blush champagne. My recovery requires a very serious Valentines embargo.
(He gets a card but that’s it. Maybe.)
If I am to be seen at any restaurants on Valentines is to go out for a greasy hamburger with a single friend. No rushed dinner seating after work for the pleasure of noshing on an overpriced prix fixe menus and a mediocre chocolate souffle for dessert. I’ll rush home to cook a gourmet meal any other night of the year if that is what he wants. But not this night. Please don’t ask.
Last Year’s post only scratched the surface of my previous Valentine suffering. V-Day for me more often than not has involved degrees of ridicule, shame, argument, intense awkwardness, restraining orders, car accidents, burglary, exposure to communicable diseases, and vomit.
Good times. The kind that turned my Valentines foibles into great fodder for my friends the next morning.
“Girl, you’ll never guess what happened this time!”
So when it comes to Valentines, that retail inspired, saccharine infused day of expectation I say, SUCK EAT EGGS!
In fact, eat these eggs.
They are easy to make and are a nice change from deviled eggs made with tons of mayo. They earn extra points for not being fussy like my earlier attempts at the genre.
They are informed by what is now a staple of American dining and a favorite of my husband: the Caesar Salad.
Deviled Caesared Eggs