How To Celebrate Valentine's Day
I made the meal that shows my family I love them; adore them and all the bickering that has passed between us, is gone.
by Deb Williams
February
14
Valentine’s Day -- the day of love and latitude. The dead centre of suicide month but I haven’t given that much thought. It’s a day when a package of cinnamon hearts can wipe away the tension and the sperm build-up, that’s been simmering a forte night.
I made the meal that shows my family I love them; adore them and all the bickering that has passed between us, is gone. Turkey and chicken Bratwurst. I'm sure Bratwurst is the way a German mother would say, “I love you!” “Ich liebe dich,” content, her cheeks filled with purple cabbage and mustard. A happy mother with long braids and lederhosen (or something a little more flattering below because my legs in shorts look like they are being pressed through broken sausage casing.)
Potatoes or rice? Rice would be enjoyed if it were white basmati, but only by one member of the royal family, so I choose potatoes. Mashed, which is going to make at least another member unhappy, but I’ll do colcannon from my Irish valentine roots, with butter, milk, cabbage and onions for a bit of extra loving flavor.
Salad. Not salad from a box because his highness doesn’t want to see anything non-biodegradable near him and besides he doesn’t like the wiry green stuff. Not salad in a box, because she thinks it’s too expensive and we shouldn’t be paying anyone, especially someone who has probably chained tiny children to a sink in a dark, over-crowed, lettuce-washing, sweat shop (if that’s the truth you’d think it would taste saltier). So I go for romaine hearts, because it’s Valentines, in a bag, because they are marked down from the usual out-of-my-snack-bracket price. I tell his highness I promise to re-use the bag for many lunches in the future, and show her the clearly marked “local” label stapled to the highlighted receipt. “I don’t buy lettuce until it’s down to 2 bucks a bag.” Then I slice off the top third of each romain, where the price reduction shows the most. Finish it off with red pepper slices, shaped as hearts.
Enough low fat cream cheese to make a high fat cheesecake.
But why do I bother making a lovely meal and anticipate a family dinner made for memories. I could spoon out a can of dog food topped with a bucket of compost and get the same reaction. My husband would eat carrion if I set it in front of him. “This is great. Road Kill Seagull? MMMMM. Thank your mom for dinner, you two. ”
I should have held to the 3 food rule: “Pick three things you don’t like and I won’t make you eat them.” Somehow the list has squared many times.
By the end of the day my spine is soft and I am uninterested in yelling at a child left at a table stirring eggplant in circles. Who cares. Instead I threaten as they leave behind plates of partially eaten food. “You better promise that if you had this served to you at Roland’s, you would eat it. I don’t want to send fussy eaters into the world.”
Physical phitness: PHAT
Ideas for my future: How much longer does it have to go on?
Mood index: 2.3 particles per billion
Sex: I better. He did the dishes twice today so he’s expecting something.
Dinner: See above.
Valentine’s Day -- the day of love and latitude. The dead centre of suicide month but I haven’t given that much thought. It’s a day when a package of cinnamon hearts can wipe away the tension and the sperm build-up, that’s been simmering a forte night.
I made the meal that shows my family I love them; adore them and all the bickering that has passed between us, is gone. Turkey and chicken Bratwurst. I'm sure Bratwurst is the way a German mother would say, “I love you!” “Ich liebe dich,” content, her cheeks filled with purple cabbage and mustard. A happy mother with long braids and lederhosen (or something a little more flattering below because my legs in shorts look like they are being pressed through broken sausage casing.)
Potatoes or rice? Rice would be enjoyed if it were white basmati, but only by one member of the royal family, so I choose potatoes. Mashed, which is going to make at least another member unhappy, but I’ll do colcannon from my Irish valentine roots, with butter, milk, cabbage and onions for a bit of extra loving flavor.
Salad. Not salad from a box because his highness doesn’t want to see anything non-biodegradable near him and besides he doesn’t like the wiry green stuff. Not salad in a box, because she thinks it’s too expensive and we shouldn’t be paying anyone, especially someone who has probably chained tiny children to a sink in a dark, over-crowed, lettuce-washing, sweat shop (if that’s the truth you’d think it would taste saltier). So I go for romaine hearts, because it’s Valentines, in a bag, because they are marked down from the usual out-of-my-snack-bracket price. I tell his highness I promise to re-use the bag for many lunches in the future, and show her the clearly marked “local” label stapled to the highlighted receipt. “I don’t buy lettuce until it’s down to 2 bucks a bag.” Then I slice off the top third of each romain, where the price reduction shows the most. Finish it off with red pepper slices, shaped as hearts.
Enough low fat cream cheese to make a high fat cheesecake.
But why do I bother making a lovely meal and anticipate a family dinner made for memories. I could spoon out a can of dog food topped with a bucket of compost and get the same reaction. My husband would eat carrion if I set it in front of him. “This is great. Road Kill Seagull? MMMMM. Thank your mom for dinner, you two. ”
I should have held to the 3 food rule: “Pick three things you don’t like and I won’t make you eat them.” Somehow the list has squared many times.
By the end of the day my spine is soft and I am uninterested in yelling at a child left at a table stirring eggplant in circles. Who cares. Instead I threaten as they leave behind plates of partially eaten food. “You better promise that if you had this served to you at Roland’s, you would eat it. I don’t want to send fussy eaters into the world.”
Physical phitness: PHAT
Ideas for my future: How much longer does it have to go on?
Mood index: 2.3 particles per billion
Sex: I better. He did the dishes twice today so he’s expecting something.
Dinner: See above.