Waffles and Boiled Eggs

The Rev. and I never eat out on Valentine's Day. It was part of a pre-marital agreement that forbade the other partner from becoming a victim to buying overpriced, thematic candy, greeting cards or any other tchotke that would later be shoved in a dark closet and be sold at a future garage sale. We always make plans to make a nice dinner at home, drink a nice bottle of wine, and enjoy each other's company. We at least take advantage of the "keeping the wife happy" command of "Thou shall not plan a council meeting on Valentine's Day."

The Rev. had promised me dinner, and we had decided on a braised oxtail dish. You are probably wrinkling your nose in disgust right now, but we have never tried oxtail, and it keeps with our theme of "not doing what the rest of the world is doing right now, sort of." I arrived home, anticipating the smell of braised meat and cooked greens, but instead I got nothing. The Rev. was sitting at the table eating a waffle. There was a flower arrangement on the table, and a card, and a glass of champagne, but no oxtail.

"Waffles are in the oven."

"Dare I ask what happened to the oxtail?"

"It was a three day recipe."

"What do you mean it was a three day recipe?"

"It takes three days to cook."

"Didn't you read the recipe? I emailed it to you."

"Yes, I read it today, about an hour ago."

"Well, pass me a waffle. Do you want some eggs? I can't drink champagne without having some protein in my stomach."

"No, I'm happy with my waffle."

So, dear readers, my Valentine and I celebrated our special evening with breakfast. The waffles were homemade. The syrup was maple. The conversation....

"This is our 9th Valentine's Day."

"Yep."

"Have I changed much in 9 years?"

"I would dare to say you have improved greatly with age."

"Really? Are we talking a 98% improvement or a 60% improvement?"

"I wouldn't say 98%. You aren't that close to perfection."