Jackson Free Press

We would drizzle honey all over each other's bodies, then dangle strawberries between each other's lips. I would describe the whipped-cream and ice-cube part... but I can't stop snickering. Unfortunately, Luis and I are not exactly Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger. When asked to write about what I would cook for my husband on Valentine's Day, I panicked. I had to be impressive; we're both chefs, for cryin' out loud.

I had visions of amorous lovers licking chocolate off each other, feeding each other grapes. Then I giggled. And I couldn't stop. Do they really want to hear what Luis and I will eat? Dare I tell the truth? Or should I create a dazzling restaurant-quality menu loaded with traditional aphrodisiac ingredients?

I consulted various reputable texts on the subject such as "Cooking in the Nude: Playful Gourmets" by Debbie and Stephen Cornwell (Howell Press, 1996), and "InterCourses: An Aphrodisiac Cookbook" by Martha Hopkins and Randall Lockridge (Terrace Publishing, 2002). I even found a book called "50 Ways to Feed Your Lover," by Janeen A. Sarlin & Jennifer Rosefeld Saltiel (William Morrow and Co., 2000). Now I was cackling. I just could not pull it off, this seduction with spice, using food as foreplay. Was Valentine's Day dinner supposed to be some kind of edible orgy?

Serious journalistic research had not paid off, so I decided to interview my husband. Chef Luis would have great insights. He's cooked for the president. This would be effortless.

Or not.

My husband is not a verbose man. Our wedding vows went something like this: "Luis, repeat after me: For better or for worse." Luis: "Better, worse." "In sickness and in health. "Sickness. health." "Until death do us part." "Death us part." So when I asked Luis what his ultimate Valentine's dinner would be, it came as no surprise when he responded, "A big-ass steak." Ah, my husband the wordsmith.

So I asked myself: Other than a mound of USDA Prime beef, what does Luis really love? Clams. Raw clams. Not oysters, which are celebrated for increasing amore. Clams. Admittedly, I am aware of one incidence in which clams were an aphrodisiac. When my tall, blonde friend in college was a waitress at a popular watering hole in Starkville, she was forced to wear a t-shirt that read "Ask me about my clam sauce." Every guy wanted to hear about that clam sauce. The testosterone was heady, I must say. Anything served by a tall blonde is an aphrodisiac. Clams included.

Finally, after all my digging, I learned the basic tenets for preparing a romantic menu. Keep the food light or serve petite portions, avoid spicy dishes, use soft textured linens, play sexy Barry White ballads, light vanilla-scented candles, fill the room with wild orchids and rose petals, and serve luscious, ripe tropical fruits for dessert. Feeling like a rough and ready rebel, I began strategizing how I would create the mood for food. Suddenly, it was perfectly clear.

When the time comes, my plan is to dim the lights and turn on Luis' favorite television show. Candles, after all, are redundant when you have the incandescent glow of a 27-inch screen. Who needs jazz when you have the soothing background sounds of someone getting whacked on "The Sopranos?" And instead of setting a handsome table with fine linens, I'll place a TV tray in front of Luis' favorite Archie Bunkeresque chair. I'll provide chilled bottles of Corona with lime in a timely fashion.

Luis will begin his food orgy with raw clams and plenty of spicy cocktail sauce. After, I'll take his two-pound porterhouse off the grill, and serve it with greasy fries and a hunk of bread. Presentation doesn't really matter. Once I land that big-ass steak, whether or not I am even in the room is purely optional to Luis' enjoyment. Ah, my silly Valentine of nine years will be in heaven. And when he shovels in the last bite, he'll belch and say, "That was good, Momma."

Now, what woman wouldn't swoon over that?

Kathleen Bruno is a chef and a writer in Jackson.