The most romantic thing this Valentine’s Day at my house is not this pink hydrangea given to me by my husband:

But a leg of lamb stuffed with four heads of garlic.  Five whole pounds of lamb!  Bought cheerfully from the county’s most expensive butcher.  Not by me.

Hubby’s idea of valentine bliss:

Generally I neither cook nor eat lamb.  I don’t care if Hubby’s great grandfather was the number one sheep rancher in Utah.  The smell of a leg of lamb roasting in the oven all day long will never, ever leave the house.  I don’t care if you have a Fabreeze scentalator in every single room.  I don’t care if you douse yourself in perfume until you’re declared an environmental disaster area.  Eau de Lamb sticks to everything.

Three hundred and sixty four (plus or minus) days a year I avoid cooking lamb but it’s frigging Valentine’s Day and my hubby, with all his oddities, keeps me well-supplied with wine and chocolate all year long so what heck. I’ll smell like lamb for a few days.  It’s what you do for love.