As a new bride, I wanted our first Valentine’s Day as husband and wife–the most romantic of annual holidays–to be memorable.
It was memorable, but not in that Hallmark Moment way. My new husband and I had an epic argument, in that Forensic Files way. The instigator was meatloaf. I’m referring to the ground beef comfort food, not the portly rock singer with the hit “I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That),” which, given our fight, is kind of ironic.
I have never claimed to be a master chef. My husband knew that about me when he married me. What I could do was bake chicken and make delicious meatloaf that he said was the best meatloaf he had ever tasted. That was all the encouragement I needed to make meatloaf a regular menu item.
A pattern emerged that seemed to work. I made one meatloaf (among my chicken-related meals) each week of our marriage (thirteen weeks at that point). Since we were too poor to go out for lunch, meatloaf sandwiches also made for great lunches. Just about the time one meatloaf was gone, it was time to make another one.
I was unemployed, so I had time to make our first Valentine’s Day special. An idea of such brilliance came to me that I needed sunglasses to avoid being blinded by my own ingenuity. I called my husband at work and told him I would make him a Very Special Meal as my Valentine’s Day gift to him. He was very happy. Ward Cleaver happy.
I drove to the grocery store and made my Very Special purchases. Then I hauled my grocery-laden, beaming self back to our apartment and began an afternoon of Very Special Meal preparation.
I called my husband again, tantalizing him with the notion of a fancy, romantic meal made especially for him. He was giddy. Herman Munster giddy.
The Very Special Meal menu was a study in old-fashioned, fill-your-belly comfort-food kitchen wizardry: twice-baked potatoes, cauliflower au gratin, home-baked bread, home-baked apple pie and the centerpiece of the meal: a 15-pound heart-shaped meatloaf.
Magnificent! Bravura! Right?
It was my first attempt at shaping a meatloaf. For some reason, I thought that my meatloaf sculpture required three times as much ground meat as an ordinary loaf, was the ultimate romantic gesture, would impress my husband’s culinary sensibilities and would taste exponentially better than the normal brick o’ meatloaf.
Yes, my chef-d’oeuvre was huge–just like my heart. I slathered it with an entire bottle of ketchup, so it was also good and red. The thing took hours to cook, giving me plenty of time to prepare the rest of the meal and imagine all the different ways my husband would shower love and gratitude upon me for preparing such a fine and fancy meal.
I waited in bubbly anticipation for him to come home to a nicely set table and this Very Special Meal. Perhaps I called him a few more times.
He came home all smiles — until he smelled that familiar odor.
His smile vanished. “Please,” he said, “please tell me you made spaghetti and meatballs.”
“No, honey. Look! I made a heart-shaped meatloaf. Isn’t it perfect for Valentine’s Day?”
The gargantuan, ketchup-smothered labor of love sat on the table surrounded by the other dishes I had ardently prepared. He looked at it. He looked at me.
He walked away.
“What’s the matter?” I was truly baffled by his reaction.
“You have the nerve to call me at work I don’t know how many times to tell me that you’re making something really special for dinner tonight, and all you make is another meatloaf?”
“But it’s heart-shaped!” I exclaimed. “And look at all the other good foo–”
“I can’t eat any of this. I never want to eat meatloaf again. Do you understand me? Never! I’ve had enough of your meatloaf to last a lifetime.”
I was inconsolable. Hillary Clinton inconsolable. Sometime during my tearful apology, I bench-pressed the meatloaf platter into the refrigerator just to get it out of his sight. I ate alone, taking no comfort in this comfort food. I think he ordered a pizza. I drank too much wine, or maybe I just drank and whined. He probably did, too. Poor guy.
My husband had overdosed on my beef bombs. My meatloaf was a controlled substance.
My dog and I ate the meatloaf over the next month or so. That was 33 years ago. I’ve never made another meatloaf of any shape since then. I’m now a vegan.
Every Valentine’s Day, though, I have a powerful urge to make another heart-shaped meatloaf. If nothing else, my dog would love me for it.
Everybody Has a Story welcomes nonfiction contributions, 1,000 words maximum, and relevant photographs. Email is the best way to send materials so we don’t have to retype your words or borrow original photos. Send to: neighbors@columbian.com or P.O. Box 180, Vancouver WA, 98666. Call “Everybody Has an Editor” Scott Hewitt, 360-735-4525, with questions.
