So, Valentine’s Day happened. I had a really good time cooking for most of the afternoon. I decided to make something a little fussy, but I don’t like to invent things, so as usual I took a page out of Martha. It turned about pretty well, even if I had to make a couple of substitutions. I haven’t made scratch stock since Fangsgiving, I believe. As with Fangday, my spirit animal Emeril joined me on my arduous journey of chopping and sauteing.

Figure 1: More twee than previously thought possible. I was just following directions, I swear!

Figure 2: “Got any last words, Laverne?”

“Call PETA!”

“Into the pot, betch.”

I made soup with the broth. It was a nice clear broth with dumplings. I loved the shortcut of using wonton wrappers instead of making noodles yourself. The main course was chicken roulade. I discovered that “roulade” is a French word for “falls apart in the pan and doesn’t slice nicely like in the pictures.” Wow! It really pays to explore other cultures.

Figure 3: Now you can see where the fussy little hearts went.

Figure 4: Time consuming, but pretty easy. I had leftover wrappers and I ate them raw. So good!

After dinner we went to a little stroll around the neighborhood to tire Strudel out. I think the sparkling rose went to his head. I probably shouldn’t have left getting her ready up to him.

Figure 5: Something is missing here…I can’t quite figure it out though.

For dessert I made some of those little cakes that have the melted chocolate centers. I thought that was going to be a tricky one, but they take ten minutes to put together and the secret of the recipe is…you undercook them so the middle stays mushy. Don’t let a restaurant charge you six bone for an undercooked cake, okay?

I was a little disappointed with the outcome of Venereal Disease Day. My gift to Companion was dinner and me doing the dishes. Usually I cook and he does them, but I went all out last night. He asked if he could help, but I made him a martini and made him sit down. I was excited about my present but it didn’t materialize.

On Tuesday he called me from work.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m thinking about…going out tonight.”

“Going out? On the day before Valentine’s Day?” I said.

“Mmm-hmm,” he said.

“You put off shopping until the last day again, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he confessed.

“Just come home,” I said.

Then we struck a deal that my present would be a massage after dinner, because like all parents with teeny kids, my back hurts often.

We curled up in bed with the laptop, and I started a movie I’ve been wanting to see again, Scarlet Street. I thought it was a good choice because we’ve both been into Edward G. Robinson lately.

I got one of those halfway massages, where there’s no real pressure because the administrator of the massage was laying down.

“Hey,” I said. “Do you think you could sit up and give me a real massage? Maybe get out the massage bar?”

“Okay, maybe later…ZZZZZZZ.”

Forty minutes into the movie he was gone. It was like a bad sitcom, I tell you. I’m sure he needed his sleep, but he was pretty surprised this morning when he woke up with the cat duct taped to his forehead.

In case you’re interested:

Molten Mocha Cake

Figure 8: Here’s to six hours of cooking!

In Other News: Baby’s First Set of Earplugs!

Franny returns from Coventry today, for two weeks of fun. Unless she has a total shitfit about it, I am taking her to my sister’s radio station’s birthday party show. Normally I wouldn’t fuss with something like this, but I heard Macklemore’s pretty good. I’ll get out for the hiphop, but not really for the rock anymore. I have seen too many boring rock shows where the crowd just stands around with their arms crossed while we all go deaf. I’d rather dance.

It’ll be fun to do something like this with her. We call it Special Lady Time (no freaky toddlers or mens allowed).

Oh, and the word of the day is “Eatmeow.”