P.S. I love you.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been debating when and how to tell JChef that I’m in love. At least a half dozen friends have been in on the deliberation, with opinions as varied and strong as a Middle East Peace Conference.

I polled my most recently happily-married couple to find that they held out for 9 months. 9 months! But they were only seeing each other once a week, as happens in long distance (Brooklyn to Queens, no car) relationships. They moved in 3 months later, engaged 3 months after that. Eek! I’m in love, but not ready for the chips to fall that fast.

In our post-feminist spread-leg culture, saying ‘I love you’ has become the most intimate thing, far more intimate than sleeping with a partner. Women dating in their mid-thirties will sleep with a guy within the first few weeks of getting to know him (but not me, mom, not me). Yet the ‘I love you’ won’t come for months.

Single female friends seem obsessed with the fact that the man must do it first (note to self: consider the demographic). For this group, there’s the fear of “scaring a man away” with strong words. Girlfriends, listen up: better to scare him off earlier than later, no? When a man’s not ready, a man’s not ready, and no amount of denying your feelings is going to get him ready, just like eating a box of Snackwells isn’t going to help you lose weight.

So in preparing for the big day, I’ve been practicing using the word love in sentences, while in the presence of JChef:

“Yes, I tried the Agrumato oil you gave me, I love it.”
“What do you think of this rioja? I think I’m kind of in love.”
“Your restaurant is opening for lunch? I love that idea.”

And my heart has throbbed hard every time he’s played with the word:

“Allison, you know…” Pause. Pause. Pause. “I love…our conversations.”
“God, I love your pillows. What are these, goose down?”
“You are my favorite thing right now. I love my time with you.”

So we’re getting closer. The big day can’t be far away now. My greek chorus of girls shouts at me via text message and voicemail, “Houston, do we have L?” Ever so impatiently waiting for that pot to boil.

And then it came, with a twist. Just after our snowstorm but conveniently before Valentine’s Day, J came over to tell me that he’d like to stop seeing me. Things are getting too serious, it’s not what he wants. Though I may be the best partner he'll never have, he just wants to concentrate on his restaurant right now. Or his jujitsu. Or his knitting.

On the way out the door, looking at my wet face and seeing a world of pain in those typically bright eyes, he stopped. He gave me a strong goodbye hug, looked hard at me, smiled and told me that he loved me. Not my smile, not my brisket, not my perfect hard-and-softness, but me. Just me.

As for me, no, I never got to say it. The words couldn’t find their way up my wind pipe, as it was too clogged with the emotions that were being choked back down. After all that practicing, I suppose that instead of saying it, I’ll simply have to show it. I’ll just have to let him go.



Hot Chocolate
Allison Fishman, The Wooden Spoon
1 serving

I needed a warm up bad, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to screw around with that Swiss Miss nonsense.

2 heaping tablespoons sugar
1 heaping tablespoon cocoa powder (Hershey’s is what I had, but if you’ve got premium, use it)
1 pinch salt
1 cup whole milk
Dash vanilla, pinch cayenne or Aleppo or ancho chili powder, a handful of good quality chocolate morsels for extra richness, shot whiskey or rum, whipped cream, marshmallows, (optional, but oh so good).

In a small saucepan, combine sugar, cocoa, salt and 1/4 cup milk. Bring to a simmer over medium-low heat and stir (fork, whisk), until sugar is dissolved. Add the rest of the milk and bring to a gentle simmer. Pour into a mug and enjoy.

NOTE: If you’re adding the optionals, add the vanilla, chili powders or chocolate morsels while cooking, but the rum, whipped cream and marshmallows after.