Valentine's Day cookies ...

I like Valentine's Day the normal amount. This means I consider myself a low-maintenance girl for this holiday (as opposed to some others, like say, Christmas or my birthday, which we do indeed consider a holiday here at Capital C). But I will confess that I like Valentine's Day cookies more than the normal amount. Specifically, my mom's Valentine's Day cookies. I love them. In my 28 years of experience with this, the cookies remain constant, whether the holiday brings me a date and a book of Shakespearean sonnets or a night in my pajamas watching Anne of Avonlea for the trillionth time.

Generally, my Valentine's Days have been of the cookies-are-the-best-part variety. That is not a complaint. The cookies only happen once a year. Love, luckily, does not. And a holiday celebrating love should remind us that we have it every day, in countless varieties.

This week I remembered my first Valentine's Day in junior high, when I encountered the delightful ritual of sending carnations to people at school. Some girls got dozens, or so it seemed to my 13-year-old (but appearing to be 10) braces- and glasses-wearing self. Little did I know then that you arranged with your friends to send each other flowers so as to appear/feel more liked/loved/popular. During every class period, the carnation deliverers would appear at the door with a bundle of flowers, and then proceed to call out the names of the lucky recipients. Shockingly, I heard my own name called from one such list. When I looked at the card, it listed a name I did not know. I thought about it. And I solved the mystery. (My fabulous detective skills apparently existed even then.)

The next day I approached the boy who left candy on my desk every day before Spanish class. I called him the name written on the card, watched him blush as he mumbled that the name came from Star Trek, and I really hope, but do not actually remember, that I thanked him. I did not think, back then, that short of the constancy of cookies, this might have been the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me on Valentine's Day. If my 13-year-old self were writing this, I would say that I did not like like Steve (his real name, not his Star Trek name, for the record). Sure, I ate the candy every day, and I did not dislike Steve, but it did not occur to me to even attempt to be friends with him. He sent me a flower anyway. He made me feel liked. And to a 13-year-old girl, that really matters ...