VALENTINE'S DAY

Forty eight years ago my wife Terry and I were engaged on Valentine’s Day.  We had met on a blind date the previous November, I proposed on our third day (she said yes), I had formally asked her mother and father for Terry’s hand in marriage and here we were having an engagement party on February 14 with a date set for a June wedding. 

The party was at her parent’s home in Santa Ana.  A small, two stories, white house on Washington Street with 3 bedrooms and 1 bath room.  I say small because there were 9 kids living there besides Terry’s mom and dad.  With both sides of this upcoming marriage being Irish Catholic, there was extended family galore in attendance.  No catering here, just every one chipping in with a dish of some kind and oodles of libation.  There were numerous teary-eyed toasts, as the Irish can do with the best of them, and another step passed in our becoming one.

This Valentine’s Day it was just the two of us.  Each of our four kids and five grand kids had business to attend to or romantic evenings of their own planned.  I had mailed to Terry a formal invitation to a sumptuous dinner for two from a Rachael Ray cookbook that I would be preparing at our own home, cocktails at 6, dinner at 7. 

I went to our local Sur Le Table and bought a white Chef’s hat for the evening, then the florist to get roses, only to be told I was too late.  A stop at the market for some key ingredients Rachael requires and I was ready.  If you have ever prepared a meal from a cook book you know it can take as much time to assemble and ready all the goodies as it can to cook the meal.  In this case, Terry knew if it was left up to me we might not eat for days.  For that reason she had everything laid out ready for sprinkling, mixing, stirring and whatever else was needed. 

As I began my meticulous preparation of salad (with Terry’s favorite Caesar dressing from El Torito), pasta with scampi, and chocolate surprise cake with Starbucks vanilla bean frappaccino ice cream, Terry became quite nervous.  With pans burning and all kinds of warning signs everywhere she began to look like Ralph Cramden did on the Honeymooners when he grew impatient with Norton.  About the fifth time I glanced at the cookbook to gauge my progress she couldn’t take it anymore.  As politely as she could she explained that while she appreciated the gesture of my preparing a romantic meal she thought it might be best if I allowed her to salvage things.  I am sure I failed miserably but I did my best to show bitter disappointment at the thought of being asked to stand down.  After all, a man has nothing if not his pride. 

As she has done for 48 years she magically pulled everything together.  We sat down with our TV trays, I toasted my best friend and we watched a review of the Red Carpet from the previous nights Grammy Awards.  The perfect evening.