Kevin and I first got together over a long, snowed in weekend following Valentine’s Day, twelve years ago. Today, to celebrate, we went hot tubbing, then made for dinner the meat that is to us the ultimate sign of romance: duck breast.
Hot tubbing is a venerable cold weather tradition, not only for Valentine’s, and the temps are around zero Fahrenheit this evening. While we waited for our tub, we sat staring into a fire that was more warming to look at than it was a force against the draft coming in the front door. Soaking for half an hour was a great way to get completely warm and relaxed before dinner.
From East Heaven, we went to the co-op to buy decadent ingredients. “You know this is thirty dollars’ worth of duck breast, right?” Kevin said as he handed me two packages. The total damage wasn’t even so bad, considering how much we’re capable of spending on food, whether it’s for fine dining, good groceries, or terrible junk. I’d rather spend it on good groceries.
When we got home, we snacked on French bread and brie, and I ate about half a tub of Greek olives, while I cooked the duck breast and warmed up the sides. It’s taken me to full maturity to appreciate the briny, meaty appeal of decent olives, and at the same time to recognize what I ever liked about the cheap black pitted kind that come in a can, and were once one of my favorite foods. I went through a period where I’d rather have a Coke than wine, and where I would would or would not have eaten the brie. Now I want the bread and olives to nibble, a glass of something red and full bodied to sip, while dinner is cooking.