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NOTHING LIKE A GOOD VALENTINE’S run through Target, from buckets of red tulips at the front door to heaps of tempting chocolates at the back, to improve that company’s first quarter earnings and brighten my mood. I bought Valentine crafts and surprises for my granddaughter, hoping they will make her smile as much as I did shopping for them all these miles away. And if my sous chef is scheming dinner plans for this Friday night, that would be nice, too. I recall a time when the simplest gesture—card, flowers, candy—made you feel like a million bucks.
If you Google love, you will find eros, philia, agape and all the Greek varieties. But I haven’t yet seen a love of chocolate. Chocolove—that one is missing. I love dark chocolate with a sprinkle of sea salt, hot chocolate in Santa Fe, and chocolate pudding stirred on the stove back home. I know some people say chocolate keeps them up at night, but I like the rush it gives you mid-afternoon. I love dense flourless chocolate cakes even if they crash in the center when you pull them out of the oven. I love homemade chicken soup when I’m sick and crispy chicken scallopine when I’m not, good banana bread any day, and of course, summer tomatoes and how they squish onto sandwiches of white bread and mayo. I used to hate pepperoni on pizza but now love how its heat balances with the sweetness of honey brushed on the crust’s edge. I love retro meals of wedge salads, strip steaks, creamed spinach, and Sinatra. I still love Jell-O at Thanksgiving.
I love my dog Ella and how a simple walk with me is the highlight of her day. I love the smell of peonies that return each spring along my driveway. And I love soft spring raindrops and don’t care how rain frizzes my hair like I used to. I love a detective series and anything Masterpiece. I love reading a book cover to cover, books like Black Cake, Tom Lake, North Woods, Say Nothing, This is Happiness, and Time of the Child. I love listening to Eudora Welty read Delta Wedding while I drive through Mississippi. I love Paris and polishing the copper I bought there. The trick is to slice juicy lemons in half, pour in salt so the halves become little sponges, and then scrub. I love a good road trip. And then I love coming home. I love asking questions. Difficult ones, too. Last week as the chaos continued in Washington, DC, I called my U.S. congressman and senator. I left a voice message for the latter, but someone answered at the former. A young staffer actually talked with me. While I like other points of view, I am not sure I love them. I love America. And I am frightened for her.
My younger sister was in town visiting, and I asked her what she loved most. She was sipping her morning coffee, something she says is a religious experience, as she nods to her mug. Some people don’t want a bite of food to grace your lips until you savor each life affirming mouthful of it, she adds. She loves taking time to wake up with the sunlight just coming in the front window. We staged dinner at the house with my older sister and cousin Joe. I slow-baked pot roast, the easiest winter dinner party. I love pot roast cooked down slowly on a bed of onions with no tomatoes and adding the carrots and potatoes to steam through in the last 25 minutes. I love how my family remembers every meal and vacation past except no one agrees on the details. Love is hearing how my parents traveled to Ireland and when their rental car got stuck in the peat bog it had to be pulled out by a passing lorry (truck) driver. I love how my mother ordered lamb in England because my father couldn’t stand the smell of it at home. They often stayed with fancy cousins Larry and Martha who entertained them to the nines. So when Larry and Martha came stateside, my mother pulled out all stops. After dinner she placed a cheesecake and dessert plates on an old tea trolley and enlisted my younger sister to push the creaking contraption into the dining room Downton Abbey-style and carve slices. I love the sound of my sisters’ laughter, and this memory brought howls. I love remembering our first car. It was an electric blue Dodge Duster, impossible to miss on the road. It was an aunt’s car first, and she passed away, so my father being practical like he was, thought the car was a suitable purchase. And it did ferry my older sister and me to our first jobs across town at the new Opryland theme park. My sister drove the trams in the parking lot, a frightening thought since she had just that week sideswiped a mailbox in our mother’s car and I believe she was the one driving in Ireland. I was a front gate cashier, a job paying less money but with a better uniform. We rode together in the Duster in time for her early morning shift, and not fully rested and not having to clock in for another hour, I continued to sleep in the car until my shift began. This was before smart phones but somehow maybe with the sound of the birds outside the window and the sun growing hotter through the windshield, I woke up in time. I don’t love first thing in the morning, but I love morning once we greet each other on equal terms. What do you love?
In early 1971 I went with my older sister to the Belcourt Theater in Nashville to watch the new movie called Love Story starring Ali McGraw and Ryan O’Neal. It brought me to tears but I never quite understood that love-means-never-having-to-say-you’re-sorry part of it. I thought when someone loves you they are kind, considerate, and absolutely will tell you they are sorry if needed. But life is full of contradictions and tricky parts. As the humorist and writer Erma Bombeck would say, ‘’a child needs your love more when he deserves it least.’’ Today, love is his making me a cup of tea each morning. And when he’s out of the house before I am, the tea bag resting on the side of the white mug and the water nearly boiling.
Love is coming back into someone’s life after you went separate ways. Love is how you weren’t at your desk when he called the newspaper office but your colleague answered your phone and then screamed to the newsroom that ‘’there’s an old boyfriend on the phone for Anne.’’ Love is how you went to dinner, reconnected, received a marriage proposal, and moved to England. Love is raising children together and helping older parents. Love is his driving you to every cancer treatment. Love is his coming along on book tour and listening to a PowerPoint the hundredth time and still smiling and nodding in approval. Love is also the critique you get afterwards that you ran through the slides too quickly. Love is showing up. Love is remembering Valentine’s. - xo, Anne
PS. I loved my mother’s quick chocolate pudding. She would whisk a box of chocolate pudding mix into 2 cups milk in a saucepan over medium heat until thickened, about 5 minutes. Then she’d turn off the heat and stir in 1/2 cup semisweet chocolate chips, 2 tablespoons butter, and a teaspoon of vanilla until the chocolate melts. For a quickie pudding, it was sublime. But a better recipe is the one that follows, a Valentine to yourself. Omit the rum and use vanilla for the flavoring if you like. But do softly whip the cream. You’ll love it. Book Tour Continues in 2025!
THE RECIPE: Grown-Up Chocolate PuddingWhen I was young and our mother wasn’t inviting friends over for a dinner party, just cooking for our family, she’d make us chocolate pudding for dessert. She’d pull out a heavy saucepan, add sugar, flour, cocoa powder, and salt, pour in scalded milk, and cook the mixture until thickened. If she felt decadent, she’d enrich the pudding with egg yolks, butter, and more chocolate. It was simple yet divine, and if I was in the kitchen keeping her company, she’d hand me the wooden spoon to lick. Today as I riff on her pudding, adding dark rum instead of vanilla, I realize chocolate pudding may satisfy children, and it just might remind us of childhood, but it can also be the most luscious and comforting grown-up dessert I know. Serve with hot coffee or cordials. Serves: 4 Prep: 15 to 20 minutes Cook: 7 to 8 minutes
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