Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

In literature, Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol gave us Ebenezer Scrooge, a miserly, cynical grumpy old man who was lonely and hated Christmas.

Somehow, despite the darkness and trying Victorian times, Dickens managed to reform Scrooge and gave him a change of heart.

Cupid, on the other hand, has been around a lot longer than Christmas. However, I’m not sure the classical mythologists ever envisioned their god of love, erotic desire and affection would be mismanaged to the extent he has been. Pink and red flurries of pretty much anything love, erotic or heart related now marks the occasion, wherein essentially, it was a greeting card producing company that succeeded in creating the second-ever biggest holiday (after Christmas): Valentines Day. It was from this platform that Hallmark they could mass sell their cards and bougie trinkets from. Of course, we’re a world of mindless lambs following each other and set aside February 14th to declare love for one another.

Sadly, perhaps, given I’m neither a classical mythology buff (any mythology in fact, to my dismay and shame, because my 12 year old nephew runs rings around my mythology literature knowledge, despite me being fairly well read elsewhere), nor am I a romantic at heart, you can assume correctly that I find Valentines Day to be a tedious reminder of the over-commercialism and lack of imagination of society in general.

I am the Ebenzer Scrooge of Valentine’s Day.

My Anton, on the other hand, was a gift giver.

He proclaimed his romantic overtures in a less common manner, so expensive dinner reservations and flowers were not on his agenda, claiming his best meals were always cooked by my hand and “flowers die, my love for you won’t” so flowers weren’t seen as a suitable symbolic gesture.

But oh how I did secretly long for flowers on Valentines Day- any day in truth, but then again, there’s much to be said of always being on the receiving end of the same frequent bouquets of flowers simply because society says so.

No, Anton had a different take on the day of love. He would generally gift me with something useful.

To date, the gift that stands out in my mind the most? A red Le Creuset frying pan. We had agonised for weeks over replacing an egg-frying pan that had lost its Teflon. We needed a new pan to cook eggs in, but- and because I’m a fussy bitch- I saw no point in buying a pan that only served to cook eggs in, when in fact, an investment into something more dynamic would be of greater use, but exactly what was the solution, I want sure.

Those were the days when we were newish to France and still existing only on his salary. Finances were tight. Tight enough to not be able to afford exciting holidays but not that tight that we passed down the opportunity to spend money on a discounted Le Creuset frying pan off Amazon.

And so, born out of a list of pros and cons, needs and wants, the decision was made to purchase a red cast iron frying pan that could probably be used as a weapon should I have wanted to beat my hubby at any point. And red, not because it was a Valentine’s Day gift, but because I love red and think it serves a luscious purpose in life.

Another gift my late husband gave me on Valentine’s Day was the offer of a job in France.

It was 2013 and he had been out on the road, travelling most likely to the darker realms of Limpopo Province. Those were difficult days for us. Financially circling the drain, dealing with vehicles that left us stranded, desperate ex’s seeking money from him, working hours and jobs that left either of us little joy and other people demanding whatever time was left from us, we were merely existing on the scent of a long forgotten dream of happiness, like ships passing in the night.

While driving the 5 hours up north early in the morning so that he would return to me and our babies by nightfall, he received a phone call from Véronique in France with a job offer.

That Valentine’s Day was one to remember. Like I said, he was prone to unique gifts.

The year that really comes to mind now, and will likely stay with me for a long time to come was 2024.

February 14, 2024 was the last day our married life, well, was the last day of our regular married life.

It was also the last day Anton used his much beloved bicycle.

My husband was a fit sport-loving guy. Not only did he just love watching sport live and on the television (like, I’m talking about catching him watch the Dominican Republic regional women’s cricket league before women’s cricket because a society- acceptable form of watching sport) but he would also be out there participating in almost anything that got his heart racing.

Golf (okay, less heart racing than other sports), cricket (especially here in France), running (because he loved beer too) and cycling.

He was especially known for his love of cycling and many many people will attest to it, regaling stories of Anton and his bikes.

Our home in Alsace is located on the periphery of the départements’ capital, wholly diagonally across the city from his office. Anton’s joy at being able to take the longest possible cycle journey to the office daily was also a sense of pride.

That very last day he took his bike to work has become a symbol of change for me, a day forever etched into my heart.

We obviously had no clue what was coming. He’d cycled to work, arrived home in time for our regular Valentine’s Day dinner of salmon steak, twice fried steak house frites and steamed broccoli and he went to bed claiming a destructive headache.

Two work-from-home days followed complete with headaches. By the time a wet Monday rolled round he didn’t have the strength to cycle to work so he drove slowly there, claiming a bad headache still. I was aware something was up.

We chatted about it, and he said that he headaches weren’t regular headaches. I suggested we see our doctor. When we saw her- a week after his bicycle journey on Valentine’s Day, she sent us directly to the emergency rooms to find the source of his stroke.

Anton had endured a stroke at some point in the week prior.

He was not the same man after that.

I lost my husband on February 14th 2024. He may have died 11 months later, but the symbolism of the day in which everyone else celebrates love might possibly be the hardest day on my calendar now.

It’s one thing watching the world celebrate their love, but my bah, humbug moments are savage in their presence. Love is the antithesis of what I feel.

Or perhaps not.

Perhaps what I feel is self love. To love myself because, without that, I am nothing. I have nothing to offer if I can’t love myself.

And thus I build a space that is for me. I allow a couple of near strangers into my kitchen kingdom, simply to allow me to feel like a queen again. Tired of discovering the challenges that come with widowhood and being a single mother, I set the table straight for a short while to give back to myself by doing what I do best: cook.

I cook like a sorcerer, weaving magic and dreams into the clatter of a plate, the ringing of silver spoons and the clinking of a wine glass. I feel the warmth that comes from conversations flowing, the ease of laughter shared, the hopes and aspirations that comes easily from magic.

And yet, the touch of his hand across the bottom of my back, his arms wrapped around me in gentle appreciation, his lips on mine, being able to simply be in his presence…. The absence of these moments eventually takes their toll.

I have no intention of seeking out any type of replacement. I do not need the comfort of another man. But the lingering sense of what I no longer have is slowly creeping into my mind, I wonder what I’m missing and most especially, will I ever be able to feel the comfort I had being naked in front of the man I married?