Valentine's Day

Let's just admit to ourselves right now: if you're single on Valentine's Day, it may make you feel bitter. And not in the really good, bitter chocolate kind of way. Valentine's is so heavily commercialized nowadays that it can be difficult to avoid all the signs pointing to the fact that you're alone. The cutesy, overly-decorated cards with sayings you'll never actually say? Check. The restaurants that cater to couples who'll pay for overpriced meals just because everyone else is? Double check.

I don't know about you, but as a single woman on Valentine's Day, I say heck no to that. Just because you may not have someone to make goo-goo eyes at (does anyone still use that phrase?), why should this occasion mean any less for you? What do you have to feel bitter about, when you're already such an amazing, confident and live-life-to-it's-fullest kind of woman? Valentine's Day is just like any other day you'll be single on – although, you'll be more aware of it thanks to the aforementioned signs. Instead of beating ourselves up over such a ridiculous standard, I say it's time we turn that bitterness into the really good, chocolatey goodness kind. You know that bag of candy, piece of cake or heart-shaped cookie you've been eyeing? Go for it. Don't mind the fact that you're buying it for yourself; rather, revel in that.

When I was 7 my mother, Susan, met my future stepfather, Larry. They had been dating for about a month when she made him a batch of caramel nut brownies—a recipe she’d come up with herself. Larry took one bite and blurted, “Oh my gosh, I love you!” It was the first time he’d said anything like that, and it was sort of a joke—but then he followed up with, “Actually, I really do love you, and I’ve been wanting to tell you that.” After they got engaged, Larry renamed the recipe “Man-Catcher Brownies.”

Mom taught me how to bake when I was 12, and these brownies were one of the first recipes she shared with me. “Remember, Amy, whoever eats these will fall in love with you,” she said. I knew she was teasing, but the brownies still took on magical properties in my mind. My friends and I would have sleepovers and bake batches of them for boys we had crushes on. Sometimes we’d be sneaky about it and bring the brownies to the whole class, just so that a particular guy would be sure to eat one. When one of us had a steady boyfriend, we’d make up a nice little bag for him and tie it with a bow. Larry was on to our schemes. “Those man-catcher brownies work, so y’all be careful,” he’d say. “Don’t give ’em to anyone who won’t treat you right for the rest of your life.”

Lee's biggest complaint regarding my cooking is that I "never repeat", meaning I never make the same thing twice. Which isn't true of course, but I know what he means. I'm always looking to improve upon recipes and try something new. So for Valentine's Day I let him choose the menu, something new or a repeat of an old favorite.

For celebratory meals it seems eating in is at least as romantic as eating out, maybe more. And with a few possible exceptions, no matter what ingredients you buy, you'll be hard pressed to spend more than you would dining out. One year I even made platters of seafood--oysters on the half shell, poached shrimp, mussels, smoked salmon, etc. But the biggest hit was the time I made cheese fondue followed by chocolate fondue. So after deciding we'd rather do Valentine's Day dinner at home this year, Lee expressed his desire for "Fondue x 2", which is our menu du jour.

My little brother came home from a bar mitzvah with a dazed look in his eyes and a henna tattoo across his arm that read: 'Nikita.' He told me it was fate. He was standing in the middle of the dance floor and announced to his friends that the sexiest name in the world was Nikita, and within moments a blonde sauntered over to him and said, "That's my name. I'm Nikita."

He was in love, his faith in the universe (which had recently been diminished following our move from his beloved Pacific Palisades to the gaudy Beverly Hills) had just been restored…and I didn't have the heart to tell him, but I remember looking at my mom and us both thinking, "There's no way her real name is Nikita."

Every day coming home from school was another lovestruck car ride, "Nikita this, Nikita that..." Until Thursday. Thursday he got in the car completely deflated.  He looked up and told me, "Her name's not Nikita."