If you ask a woman the first thing that comes to mind when saying the word February she will probably say something like: love, roses, valentine, candle light, romance or all of the above (please, what woman only says one word). But for men the typical response this year is: super bowl. I mean, there might be a few exceptions to the typical couple, like, for example, us. I usually give the one word answers and my husband’s romantic side always out weighs any pig skin or athletic related anything. He’s the kind who starts planning our up coming fifth anniversary in November (me: planning starts the day before) and has a road map laid out with every pit stop to be made on the get away he has booked (me: what? You need to pee?)

So this year I took a cue from my husband and stopped being so, err male, and decided to treat him to a Super Bowl party, that, umm, is not being hosted by yours truly. I guess what I mean to say is, I will send him off to a party with a humble offering of man food (read: meatball subs scaled to single servings (read: meat (read: manly chest pound and war cry))) while I stay home and wait out the Idon’tknowhowlongafootballgameis time by doing something more my speed: making a snack for our get away travels. Or organizing my closet while imagining it contains walk-in space. Or picking up the 391 toys strewn across the house. Or, just maybe, I will sneak over to the game and steal a few snacks sliders. That’s how I roll.

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Ah. The dreaded zucchini. I’m totally a two timer. If you keep up with the baby food section then I’ve already told you about my hopes and dreams when it comes to feeding my kid. Yes, I know it’s wishful thinking. I know in a matter of months I will be faced with the toddler years in which kids learn that the word “no” is not just something mama and daddy know how to say. And that protests in which plates are pushed off edges of high chair trays, noses are turned away at their favorite foods randomly without notice, and that the inner parental struggles of do I force him or fix three other dishes to see which will be tolerated by the households smallest and pickiest mouth will all be the norm and an every day reality.

But today, he is still eating everything. Including zucchini. Which makes me our household’s pickiest mouth. You see, I hate zucchini. Squash, actually. Ok, fine. I should just say vegetables. And I’ve been struggling with the fact that soon baby will realize I’m feeding him all these healthy green things while I snack on ice cream and oreos and pringles. It’s only a matter of weeks, months, until he figures out I’m a sham.

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Without further ado, I would like to present to you my summer’s culinary feat: lobster. They have been haunting me since last year when I became determined to tackle the laundry list of things I had yet to conquer. I never quite made it to lobster murder, frankly, I sabotaged myself on the rare occasion I summed up enough courage to give it a try. I’m weak people. Killing things just isn’t my forte. Especially when things include large, squirming crustaceans with foot-long antennae that sweep and wiggle and try to attack you while death-staring you with black, beady eyes and have legs that move like spiders. And you don’t want to get me started on my fear of spiders. My fear runs so deep I feel as if those with arachnophobia have it good, because I have “mess-my-pants-in-fear-as-I-loudly-scream-but-comes-out-silient-because-my-voice-box-is-broken-as-I’m-shaking-from-paranoia-at-the-microscopic-imaginary-spider-in-the-corner-across-the-room.” I have a spidey sense, and it goes off approximately 173.4 times a day. Ask my husband. He must kill them.

Anyways, I’ve been able to brush off birthday requests for lobster with the fake legitimate excuse that they are expensive (true excuse being I do no murder). And it’s true. Lobsters are pricey which is why I had no grounds for refusal when our friend traveled up to his stomping grounds in Maine and brought home an abundance of live, mammoth (ahem, some where 8-pounds!), inexpensive lobsters right around the time my husband’s birthday cropped up. We claimed two, Fred and Pepito. And had them summoned to lobster heaven while I was not present. However, we (read: I made my husband) went to battle trying to claim the meat within their exoskeletons by ourselves. It was an epic, messy battle involving chef knives, nut crackers, fondue skewers, hammers and band-aids. We should have watched the youtube video that showed us how to easily, and neatly free the lobster meat with a simple pair of scissors, but hindsight is always 20/20.

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If I’ve stuffed mushrooms, tomatoes, phyllo, potatoes and eggplant surely I must stuff peppers. At least this was my thought process as we passed the cutest little white and purple peppers in the market. These tiny things were not meant to be chopped up and added to your morning omelette or into your vegetable stir fry, these were meant to be shown off; taken to a party where you could say, look at my little peppers, aren’t they cute? After all, everything is 500 times more adorable when miniaturized.

Plus it was the only thing my husband demanded as I debated on peppers or pasta salad. Do I really want something hot when it is a million muggy degrees, or do I want chilled pasta salad with bursts of cherry tomatoes and a light oil/vinegar dressing? My vote: pasta. Husband’s vote: peppers. And had he not huffed and puffed a bit at the fact that I even contemplated doing other than he suggested I would have gone with the pasta salad.

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The formal name is crostini, but consider this the best pizza-ish-y dinner you will have sans pizza dough. Sans rise times. Sans yeast. Sans waiting. Don’t get me wrong, the pizza version will knock your socks off, but I just happened to have twice the amount of spinachy artichoke goodness with only one ball of boozy crust meaning, meaning I got to plan out the method in which we destroyed (because we in fact did) the toppings. As a dip with some chips, or piled on pita bread — excellent. By itself with perhaps a poached egg on top (creamed spinach style) — outstanding. Slathered on thick pieces of french bread that have been placed under the broiler until golden brown and crunchy with extra cheese melted until blistery and brown on top — I don’t have words people.

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