Happy Birthday to Me

I recently celebrated my birthday, never mind which.  I decided that, this year, I just wanted to celebrate by having a romantic dinner at home with my husband, Asher.  Bad Idea.  You see, my husband’s a nice guy (sometimes), but he’s not exactly good with romance.  Or tact.  Or knowing his audience, even when he’s known that audience for years.  Not that I’m much better, with that whole sarcasm thing I’ve got going.  But still.

Besides having a romantic dinner, I thought it would be nice for Asher and me to have our first dance.  That’s right; we have never danced together.  Neither of us is good at it, so it's been by mutual consent.  But this birthday, I decided to stretch a little, so I asked Asher if we could waltz together.  I told him we could learn from a video on Youtube.  Surprisingly, he agreed.  As we watched the video in preparation, we tried to follow along without injuring each other or the furniture.  I wouldn’t call it pretty, but we came out of it alive and still in a (sort of) furnished apartment.

That just left planning the dinner.  Since Asher does most of whatever cooking is done in our house, he volunteered (ok, was volunteered) to do the shopping and cooking for our meal, which I asked to be T-bone steaks.  My job would be to make the apartment look appropriately festive.  At 7pm on the Big Day, Asher walked through the door and plopped himself on the couch.  “All they had was pepper steak,” he said.  “I’ve never made that, so you’d better look up how to do it on the internet.“

“Me?” I said. “You're the one who’s supposed to be cooking.  Why don’t you look it up?”

“I’ve had a hard day at work,” he growled, now stretched out on the couch with his legs hanging over the side.

“So have I,” I said, googling “pepper steak.”  He’s a big guy.  Now that he was horizontal, I knew I’d be lucky if I could get him to go vertical for the sake of being in the room full of food to which I was trying to maneuver him, let alone to look at the non-edible plastic and metal that is a computer.

“Every recipe I’m seeing says that you need to either marinate or slow cook pepper steak for several hours,” I moaned.  “Why didn’t you go shopping earlier?”

“Why weren’t you born earlier?!”  I heard, from the general direction of the couch.  Remember, men are the rational ones.  And they’re good with numbers.  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he groused, projecting surprisingly well for someone completely motionless.

“You’re right,” I said, getting up.  “Because I don’t cook. That’s why you’re  supposed to be doing this.”

After a few more grumbles to save face, he went to the computer and then got up to go to the kitchen. “And what will you be doing while I’m cooking?” he said indignantly.

“Besides being the birthday girl?” I asked.  I knew I was leaving myself open on that “girl” part, but I threw caution to the winds because, after all, I was the birthday girl.  “I’m going to fix up the table and change into something nice,”  I said.  “But not new, I hope,” he countered.  “ Black Friday at Macy’s was more like ‘In the Red Friday.’” 

“Don’t you want your wife to look good?” I sniffed.

“I didn’t know Macy’s was offering plastic surgery these days,” he sneered.

I knew it was Horizontal Asher talking, but I still couldn’t let him get away with that. “You’re going to need surgery soon if you don’t cook our romantic meal, pronto.”  I would have said more if some dresses he still didn’t know about weren’t going to be delivered by UPS in a day or two.

About a half hour later, Asher declared that the pepper steak was done.  I found that a bit surprising, given what all those recipes on the internet had said, but I was determined to be optimistic.  And to his credit, instead of wearing the 50 year old jeans and stained shirt in which he usually relaxes, he wore something nice.  As we sat at the table set with flowers and our good dishes, Asher picked up his wine glass:

“To my wife.  Many happy returns.” We clinked glasses.

“… of the stuff from Macy’s,” he said, with his trademark smirk.  Although it occurred to me that he had seen the UPS delivery before I did, I decided to go the indignant route.  “This is supposed to be a romantic dinner for my birthday,” I said.  “You’re right,” he said, giving me a kiss. “Although in my defense, you do have that whole sarcasm thing going, so I never quite know what I can get away with…anyway, sorry, and Happy Birthday. Now let’s enjoy your birthday dinner.”

Unfortunately, as I took my first bite of pepper steak, enjoyment was not what I felt.  There are a lot of false things on the internet, but those pepper steak recipes are not among them.  As a Jewish person, I like my meat well done, but I still like it to taste like meat, not the napkin. I looked over at my husband, who was, as he likes to say, “tucking into” his meal with gusto.   One thing about Asher, he can eat and enjoy just about anything.  That’s a blessing for him, but not always for the people he cooks for.  Seeing me hesitate, he lifted a condiment. “Crushed peppers?” he said. “To go with my crushed dreams?” I felt like saying, but merely shook my head no.

When he came up for air, Asher noticed that I had barely touched my steak.  “Don’t you like it?” he asked.  “It’s good,” I lied. “I’m just kind of full.  I think my stomach’s gotten smaller.” (Let’s see him disagree with the birthday girl about that.)  “And besides, I’m saving my appetite for the cake.  You did remember that,” I said.

“Oh, yes I did,” he said, rubbing his hands together with glee.  “I’ll bring it out.” 

So he did.  And it was lovely, with lovely candles in the shape of letters that spelled out “LOST COUNT.”

Nervously looking at my reaction, he said “Sorry. At the time it seemed like a good idea.  You know, that whole sar-“

“-casm thing I’ve got going.  Yeah.  I know what you mean,” I responded.   Still determined to get some romance out of the evening, I was a good sport and ate my cake enthusiastically.  Then, just when I was about to suggest we try our waltz, Asher’s eyes lit up.  “Oh, you’ll never guess what’s happening in 10 minutes!” he said. “What?” I asked.  “A new ‘Big Bang’ episode!”  He crowed. And it wasn’t even a euphemism.  The thing is, because I had barely eaten my steak, my wine had gone to my head, and whatever balance and rhythm I’d had were probably gone by now anyway.  I’m sure there are worse ways to spend a birthday than curled up on the couch laughing at a TV show with your soul mate.  And as soon as I can think of one, I’ll let you know.