It was true.
In the seven years since they had been married, Valentine’s Day had become synonymous with romantic folly, yielding the kinds of stories that, at dinner parties, kept friends laughing, helplessly, until someone finally snorted a green pea out their nose.
Dark Chocolate Paté
3 large egg yolks 12.5 grams granulated sugar 250 grams dark chocolate 150 grams unsalted butter 250 ml 36% (whipping) cream 75 grams dried sour cherries, chopped In a large bowl, thoroughly whisk together egg yolks and sugar. Set aside. In a large Bain Marie, melt together chocolate and butter, stirring with a rubber spatula until combined and glossy. Slowly stir chocolate/butter mixture into egg yolk/sugar mixture. Stir in cream. Fold in cherries. Pour mixture into 15 individual silicone moulds. Place in freezer for several hours or overnight. Turn out onto serving plates and allow to sit five minutes. Serve with raspberry coulis. (Alternately, pour mixture into a single, parchment-lined pâté mould or a small spring form pan. To serve, slice with a hot chefs’ knife, cleaning knife under hot water after each cut). Makes one litre of mixture.A year later, there was the incident with the chocolate lava cakes — and the stains on the kitchen ceiling to prove it.
Following that were two distinct restaurant mishaps that resulted in having to choose two new favourite restaurants.
Then, back in their own kitchen for Year Five, was the year of the mysterious big bang and the resulting fallen soufflés, the year she finally tossed her whisk in the sink and declared a ban on Valentines’ Day.
“We have a good marriage. We don’t need a paper-card holiday to prove it!” she said, her face red as a cinnamon heart.
But, when February came around again the next year and they treated it like any other day of winter, she felt as sullen as the weather. They decided to make it up to each other by making their anniversary, in the summer, extra special.
That July, a friend loaned them a houseboat for the night.
They arrived separately — to heighten the anticipation.
(It was a choice they would’ve reconsidered had they known that getting to the dock entailed a half-hour-long tractor ride, down an iffy cliff side goats would fear to tread, with a gregarious vineyard owner who held their lives, and their romantic evening, in his hands.)
They brought silk sheets and other silken things.
They brought wine and flowers and gourmet take-out and two place settings of their good dishes.
Together at last.
It wasn’t until the tractor was halfway back up the goat track that they discovered they weren’t alone.
A half-hour later, on the houseboat’s roof deck, while their friend’s adult daughter and her boyfriend had their own celebration in the cabin, they ate in miserable silence.
It began to rain.
Still, she was a hopeless romantic, a hopeless romantic with a recipe she was anxious to try for the very first time.
Worse, it was a pastry chef’s recipe, which she had obtained by writing more than one pleading letter to their (new) favourite restaurant, a recipe that needed to be halved at least twice, one that was written in exacting grams and millilitres instead of familiar cups and tablespoons.
Instead of trying to convert it into wild approximates, she made her shopping list.
She started at her favourite gourmet shop to buy oval-shaped silicone moulds and a digital kitchen scale.
Elsewhere, she selected dark Belgian chocolate and dried sour cherries.
Then, at home, she carefully separated yolks from whites, melted chocolate over a gentle water bath, stirred and folded everything together, poured the mixture into the priceless moulds, set the moulds on baking sheets and placed the baking sheets into the freezer overnight.
It wasn’t her fault the freezer door didn’t close.
Nor was it her fault when $1,000 worth of frozen groceries thawed out and had to be thrown away.
But, when she made the chocolate paté again the next day and served it after dinner that night, all was forgotten — until the very next dinner party.
Darcie Friesen Hossack is a food columnist and author of Mennonites Don’t Dance.
onepotatotwopotato@shaw.ca.
