We don’t go in for Valentine’s Day much at our house. (See further thoughts on the subject over at sfgirlbybay: Friday Food Files With Molly Watson: Valentine’s Supper.) We used to not “celebrate” it at all, but Ernest is in kindergarten and part of his “homework” this week was to make Valentine’s cards for his classmates and then, of course, he came home yesterday with mostly store-bought cards and a mess of candy. So he now thinks Valentine’s Day is the bomb and there is lots of talk about it in our house in a way there never used to be.
But yesterday I had to go to the DMV, a place, I think we can all agree, that is not in any way romantic. I was there for approximately forever. To add insult to injury my car had been broken into and I was going to have to deal with that. I left the DMV, ready to go to the glass place, with a headache and an empty stomach feeling very sorry for myself indeed. I sat down, put the keys in the ignition, and jumped in my seat: There was something on the passenger seat. I thought of all places where an already-broken-into car might be safe it was the DMV parking lot. And why had someone left something? Before all these thoughts had really even run their course through my brain and turn into any kind of panic I noticed what the object was: a pizza box with my dashing husband’s writing on it. He had bought me some lunch, driven to the DMV, and left it for me.
I’ll take surprise DMV pizza over a dozen roses any day.
(Same said dashing husband had a business dinner last night. Ernest ate leftover sushi; I ate the remaining pre-Valentine’s pizza.)
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