Nor do I want you mine.
I think it was that pink Rice Crispy Treats I was subjected to one sad Valentine that ruined it for me for ever. Or perhaps it saved me. Depending on your perspective. In any case, if I saw another heart-shaped cookie or pink cake I might just scream and go sew black buttons over my eyes and then build traps for unsuspecting children or misguided lovers. I just might.
But there is hope yet. A distressed signal sent over Twitter to my crowd received in reply dozens of also-dissenting voices, reassuring me that even in my most misanthrope moment, I am, alas, not alone. In the dark, lonely corners of Twitterverse we plotted to bring down valentines. "Do the Chicken with 40 cloves of garlic", sang the Tweet-chorus. "Cook everything that gives you gas", cried a petulant - or perhaps flatulent - voice. Another pointed to a gnarly - if absolutely delicious - Dim Sum staple, braised chicken feet. One even suggested a bottle of cheap booze and a hammer, I dared not ask why. I supposed another that might do is that dish with a poetic name, Pissed-off Prawns, I ate earlier this week at Michael Chiarello's new Bottega up in Napa.
Then an aha moment arrived. What fun is bitterness without booze? There you have it. I'll make chocolate truffles, dark and bitter chocolate truffles, and I'll make it boozy. Rum perhaps. No, Armagnac, better yet, Armagnac with some prunes soaked in it.
And just in case you're wondering. No, no, the cause of my bitterness is *not* because my otherwise-sweet valentine is at his restaurant cooking a very special meal for everyone else's valentines. And, no, it hasn't been like that every year for the past four valentines we've had together. And, really, no, I don't plan on wallowing in my bitterness tomorrow night with a bowlful of these boozy bonbons and all those monster movies marathon on Sci-fi. I don't plan on doing that at all.