I don’t know how the month of February bodes in your household, but my Februaries are always busy whirlwinds of fun and expense. I, like so many other non-Catholics in our area, participate in the frivolities of Mardi Gras without the pesky repenting, fasting overall restrictions of Lent…growing up in a Southern Baptist household, restrictions rendered on all 365 days until my adulthood, I say, C’mon Pardi Gras! My birthday is also in February, so most weekends are filled to overflowing and extra cash disappears like moon pies into the sewer.

Did I mention Valentine’s Day? I’m sure you can tell by immensely overstated, cooking-partner references that I’m a hopeless romantic. Valentine’s Day may mean commercialized insincerity and overcrowded greeting-card aisles to some, but to me, it means one day of the year trimmed in red, pink and white. Notions of hearts and cupids dance in my head, right next to dreams of rose bouquets, chocolates and champagne fizz.

As I tried to think of romantic gift ideas for Randall, thoughts of the practical yet pleasing slipped to the forefront, as we’re trying to buy a townhouse and as first-time home buyers, we want to be ready for anything.

Small gift wrapped in red and purple heart cellophane, I decided to bake a cake to enjoy after our romantic dinner in. He loves strawberries, so I decided on a strawberry cake mix with dark chocolate icing. Grueling over a hot oven would certainly replace my lack of spending and boost me to the top of the thoughtful, make his co-workers jealous with left-over cake list.

The big day slipped to the front of the calendar and I still hadn’t baked my sweet’s sweets. As with most boxed cakes, I added a few ingredients, mixed and popped it into the oven. While I waited for the cake to bake, I began to mix confectioners’ sugar with water to make decorative icing. I didn’t want to spend money on the easy tubes of icing, plus I’d bought one of those icing bags with different tips many months before and distinctly remembered Randall’s noting his doubts that I’d ever use it. Since it was still in the package in a bottom drawer of the kitchen, fine time to prove my Valentine wrong AND create some deliciousness.

Having never successfully made my own decorative icing, I blindly added the fine sugar and some amount of water in a bowl as I eyed the clock to gage his arrival. I wanted the cake finished and resting on the counter when he walked in from work.

The oven timer beeped and startled me out of my icing making as I pulled the cake from the oven and performed the toothpick test. Clean toothpick and cake Tupperware ready, I flipped the dish over and grimaced as the dessert didn’t emerge. Sure it needed to cool, but no time…I flipped the square pan right-side-up, took a spatula to the edges to loosen the cake’s hold, and tried again. Plop! The cake dropped onto the plastic circle, leaving a small triangle stuck in the pan.

Oh well, icing would cover that and I got a sample. I hurried to cover the cake with the dark chocolate icing and struggled to keep bits of strawberry cake from showing through the brown sweeps of buttercream. As I finished, I turned my attention back to the watery concoction that I’d hoped to spell out “Happy Valentine’s Day, Randall” with. I’d just decided that more sugar would thicken the consistency when a ding from a text message on my cell phone nearly made me jump out of my skin.

A frantic glance toward the clock revealed that it would probably be Randall with some cute remark like, “I’m walking up the stairs.”

No time to salvage my confectioner’s sugar water. Down the sink it went. I clicked the cake Tupperware top into place and ran to the bedroom closet where I placed the cake on the top shelf. I hurried back to the living room where I’d act completely as I waited for the doorknob to turn and Randall’s red locks and dimpled chin to appear.

After a few minutes, my heart had stopped racing and I sat, confused, on the couch. I got up to check the bedroom window, but his parking spot remained empty. I walked down stairs to see if he’d broken his ritual and decided to hide somewhere else with a plethora of balloons and flowers to surprise me with.

I returned to the kitchen, scratching my head as the phone dinged again to remind me I hadn’t actually checked the message. Ha! It was my sister.

I marched back to the bedroom closet shaking my head and talking to myself, pulled the cake from the shelf and set it back on the counter. I looked with disgust at the bowl in the sink and decided, “Nope, not that again!”

Perusing the pantry, I found some fruit smoothie Jolly Rancher candies. Yes, I’d spell something with those and throw in the towel.

The unopened bag stifled my long-winded, romantic sentiments as I pulled the end, and about 25 small rectangles spilled onto the countertop.

Hmmm. I needed something visually appealing, short and sweet…The bag offered three colors, not exactly the unsung symphony I’d hope for.

Finally it came to me as I stared at the blank, chocolate surface. “MINE.” We’d called each other that since we started dating. Thoughtful, short, and four letters—purple, orange, pink, purple. I spelled my short-fallen sonnet and put the plastic lid back.

I decided that the mishap would, indeed, work to my advantage. No sign of Randall, yet, I placed the cake back on the closet shelf and imagined the after-dinner surprise emerging from the bedroom.

When he finally arrived, about an hour later, I presented the gift box. He unwrapped it, and I eagerly added, “That’s not all,” and departed the kitchen.

I returned with the plastic cake dish and he allowed the look of confusion to compliment his pink cheeks. I placed the dish on the counter, unhooked the lid. With a swift arm motion, and an excited, “Tada!” I pulled back the lid.

Silence. Immediately followed by disbelief. My beautiful, candy-spelled sentiments had melted into somewhat of a soggy rainbow. While the letters stood mostly in place, streams of purple, orange and pink poured off the sides and down the middle of the chocolate slate.

I scoffed and turned to look at him, his full-on burst of laughter held tight behind pinched lips. I couldn’t hold it either, I let out a long laugh and he joined in as he touched my face with the backs of his fingers.

The cake actually tasted delicious and he continually complimented my sweet baking attempt. He even pouted when, a week later, the last serving had been devoured and the empty cake plate set bearing streaks of chocolate and Jolly Rancher melt.

To all the bakers, romantics, one and both, it seems to me that a perfectly-baked dessert would’ve made for an extremely ordinary, first Valentine’s Day. More exact. Less memorable. Maybe next year, I’ll attempt I LOVE YOU from scratch.