Happy Birthday, St. Louis!

Puck’s white helium Sharpied face balloon had floated too near Crackers’ territory. I guess she planned on showing it was boss. But Puck put an end to that.

“CRACKERS! Don’t bat Mr. Deadman!”

Next, I suggested to my big youngster that he change out of the preppy chocolate-colored sweater he had paired with beat-up track pants.

“Please, Mom, can I wear it! It makes me look like a cake!”

“How does it make you look like a cake?”

He pointed to the cream-colored stripes on his arms. “Stripes!”

Cream filling?

Yes, it was Valentine’s Day (or “Valentime’s” as we always used to call it), but it was also St. Louis’ 251st birthday. This deserved some applause. Halfway across America and we were already founded by fourteen year-old Auguste Chouteau before the Revolution; that’s saying something.

Anyway, after Valentine’s taxes, chocolates, and slabs of ham/sweet potatoes at the Silverspoon’s, Oxbear had plans to take me out – for the first time ever, as I recall – on Valentine’s Day. (Our philosophy has traditionally been to avoid crowds).

This time, however, there was the added interest of Ballpark Village. I still hadn’t stepped foot inside the monster. And the crowds were thick, rich in Mardi Gras shells.

Our restaurant experience was tucked away in a doored-off corner, open glass views to a sleeping stadium.

Spinach-artichoke dip with tortilla chips, strip steak, chocolate roulade cake with raspberry sauce, whipped cream, and chocolate-covered strawberries. A bottle of “Cardinal red” wine on the side, which didn’t interest me, but Oxbear had a few sips anyway.

Wrapped things up back home with a double dose of brownies and a couple episodes of “Parks and Recreation” on a frosty cold Valentine’s night.