Happy Anniversary to my sweet parents, who got married at the age when I’m pretty sure I had two roommates and was writing monologues to afford my Lean Cuisines. Growing up, my brothers and I used to make them dinner on this day. I would pour through culinary magazine (because there was one, and no internet,  and so I poured through it annually), and plan an elaborate menu. My mom would give me sixty bucks and set me free in the grocery store and it was euphoria, to have a shopping list, to have a dinner to make. (To this day: my most favorite thing.) My bros and I would then get to cookin, while they most likely drove around in circles or wandered the aisles of a Kohl’s until it was time for them to return.  TADA! does not even remotely express the INSANE AMOUNTS OF PLEASURE AND JOY I felt when they returned, and I escorted them to the dining room, where their cornish hens waited, nestled in lukewarm mash potatoes, dim light, roses from the yard, name tags so they knew where to sit. Mom and Dad, I would give limbs to marinate you some cornish hens in old salad dressing tonight, burn, present.   There in spirit, and in body in a month. HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!