Valentine’s Day is, arguably, the worst day of the year to go out to dinner. Every restaurant plays the same game: a limited “special” menu, way over-priced, for a one-night clientele. The restaurants are packed, the service suffers, and you are surrounded by thrown-together couples, convincing themselves the night is romantic.

This year, as with most years, Valentine’s day fell on a week day; we both work. I wanted to make something quite nice for dinner; I decided on a chicken curry – not a quick version. So, after a very long day for both of us, I set in to cooking for the duration. Two hours into the process, I was almost ready to plate, when I thought: the sauce looks a little ‘oily’; so, I thought: pour it into the separator, and then do the final reducing step. However, in my tired state, I forgot to put the stopper in the separator; then, while muttering profanities in frustration, I forced the stopper in – which, in turn, forced the boiling hot sauce out of the separator and on to my arm. My pain-induced reaction brought the separator, with the sauce, cascading off the counter and onto the floor. The turmeric in the sauce meant that staining would set in rather rapidly. I had to walk outside and hold my burning arm (there is something about being male, and causing self-induced pain through stupidity that eliminates the desire for remedy; we suffer and swear).

Thankfully, my Valentine – who is also my wife, was able to salvage enough sauce from the counter that we, in fact, had a very nice meal.

Now, if anything is the essence of Valentine’s Day, I think I may have stumbled into it.