T-Minus Five Hours To Go

Russ and I don't really do Valentine's Day. I hate all that artificial hoo-ha. I'm definitely one of those people who believe that flowers (not roses) and chocolate (dark, not milk) and schmoopy looks (oh yeah) are a 7-24-365 requirement. I don't buy lovey cards or heart-shaped stuff or wear red or pink or even white, unless by wearing pink or red or white, I am commentating satirically on the holiday. Which I rarely do for fear of looking as though I am partcipating.

But in a gesture of love and affection and a willingness to risk burning the house down, I offered to make Russ dinner tonight. You must understand that Russ is the cook in our house, and an excellent one at that, whipping up concoctions that sparkle in the mouth. I, on the other hand, have a non-sparkling history when it comes to using the oven/stove. I've been known to put tuperware in the oven or bake cookies without a cookie sheet. All very messy. I don't know what's wrong with me, when it comes to cooking. I've had many friends give me diagnoses and the one I keep coming back to is that I'm a combination of non-tactile and unwilling to pay attention to the details. It would be like if Martha Stewart cut off her hands and developed an obsession with American Idol. That's me.

It's fair to say I'm a bit nervous. Last year, I made him dinner, but it was after a teaching session/practice run with the fabulous Ms. Christina Wenger, a.k.a. woman-who-could-bam-Emeril-to-oblivion-with-her-cooking. (Yes, she's really that good.) But there has been no practice session this year and I am blindly going where very few Wallin women have gone before -- the land of braised short ribs that require about an hour of intense preparation. This all goes down in about five hours. Pray for chewable meat.