her able hands

Valentines Day came early this year, which is a huge step up from past years when it was barely acknowledged by either of us with a last-minute card purchase, a peck on the cheek, and an unfulfilled (by me) promise of hanky panky that night.

This year Chris decided all on his own that he needed to take me on a date. Tuesday wouldn’t work because of guitar lessons, so he set it up for Saturday night. He picked a restaurant, lined up a babysitter, and off we went for our second ever, solo excursion as a married couple. I know. That’s more than pathetic.

We went to a German-American joint that is known for their prime-rib. I haven’t had that since I worked at Pasquini’s Fine Food and Spirits in Live Oak California, lo those two decades ago. Doug, the owner, served up some incredibly lean beef, blackened if you liked it spicy, and with a healthy serving of horseradish sauce. With that memory in mind, prime rib sounded great. Fortunately before we ordered I saw an aberrant slab of marbled beef set in front of the gentleman at the table next to us. Then I just wished I’d brought my camera.

I dove into my Grey Goose and tonic, and Chris, as designated driver, nursed his glass of mediocre Cab Sav. The petite filet mignon sounded reasonable, though I suspected I would have plenty of leftovers judging from the grotesque portions being delivered to tables all around us. I really am in the Midwest. This meal disturbed me to that fact—so much so, that two days later, I’m still full. Chris had his heart set on prime rib, so twenty minutes and another delicious cocktail later (for me,) a crane lowered his very own slaughterhouse special onto the table in front of him.

Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it. The piece of meat would have fed six people, and was bigger than any roast I have ever prepared for my family’s Sunday dinner. It hung off the plate on both sides by a good two inches, and stood at least 3” tall. I spent the next fifteen minutes laughing into my napkin and making piggy noises. And drinking.

My steak was, as expected, much too big to be called a petite anything, but was at least lean, tender, and tasty. Chris sawed away at the nearly raw chunk of cow mooing on his plate, trying to work around large stripes of fat and gristle. I had to stop watching because I gagged every time he sliced into it, and that seemed to bother the other patrons. I kept thinking of my former boss, Doug (may he rest in peace) rolling in his alcohol-induced early, grave—livid that anybody would charge $24 for such a disgusting piece of meat, and have the audacity to call it Prime.

Yeah. That’s the leftover piece of prime rib. They wrapped it the same way a butcher would, because they don’t make to-go containers that big. Also? Because the bloody thing still needs to be cooked.

Meat aside, we had a wonderful evening—three full hours of uninterrupted conversation, and the freedom to flirt with each other like a couple of on-the-verge-of-doing-it-third-daters. We talked about how much money I am spending on all of my little side ventures, and about how to reign that in just a teensy bit so we don’t wind up in debt up to his nutsack again.

I decided then and there to drop the bread and chip basket thing for the time being, finally admitting that they are way too labor intensive and I’ll never be paid adequately for the effort. Which probably just means I’m slow and a little bit untalented. We also agreed that it’s a good idea to forge ahead with the garden expansions even though that’s a mighty slow process, and he’s bogged down with work.

But it felt great to get each other on the same page about a few things, and to make a few promises that maybe we’ll be able to keep. One of which he woke me up in the middle of that night to, uh, help me keep.

Happy Valentine’s Stupid Hallmark Excuse for Spending $3.99 on a Silly Card Day!

Hope you get some too.

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