Eleven days late

This year is just gonna rock.

For the record.

It's going to rock because we've decided it is the YEAR OF THE DATE.

The Caps are important.

We made a list of 52 dates. And we are going to pull one out of the jar every week. Without fail.

ROCK, I tell you.

A third are "home" dates - a third are out - and a third are out, but can be done after the kids are in bed. (That way we abuse my mom only once every three weeks, see?)

Some are cheesy, some are romantic, some are downright hilarious. I think our first one fit all three.

FIRST WEEK:

Home date.

Have a cooking night, and choose recipes that you've always wanted to try, but never had the guts. 

My pick: Creme brulee. His pick: Lobster.

Turns out Creme Brulee is a picky little stinker. Cooks for 1 1/2 hours at 250 in a water bath with a TOWEL UNDERNEATH. Do not under ANY circumstances let the custard cups touch each other, or you will be responsible for the end of the world. Then cool to room temperature, cover, and refrigerate overnight.

Dude.

We are now the proud owners of custard cups, bytheway.

So we did the creme brulee prep on Friday, and Saturday was - LOBSTERS!

We looked for fiesty ones. Apparently fiesty = delicious. We're all about delicious.

The NBC got to come with us. Then he went straight to bed when we got home. It was date night, after all.

The seafood worker dude put them in boxes that made me think of KFC takeout.

'Cept the contents didn't smell like KFC takeout.

We're going to EAT YOU.

When My Man took them out (because I refused to touch them, of course) they started flopping all over and I pretty much thought I was going to die. Squealing might have been involved.

Then the lobsters didn't want to go in the pot. Not that I blame them. One of them even hooked his tail over the edge and refused to be boiled alive. I only felt a teensy bit bad.

My Man showed no mercy, however. He's a cold hearted murderer. And a great chef.

I sang lobstah killahhhhhhhh as motivational support.

Turns out they really do turn bright red the minute they hit the water. No kiddin'.

So once they were cooked, we put them on a plate and stared at each other. What now?

Now, my friends, we google "how in the world do you eat a lobster?"

Google knows all.

So after we completely ripped apart a pair of lobsters with pinking shears (I don't have a mallet. Or kitchen scissors.), we ate them.

(I washed the pinking shears, Mom, don't worry.)

Okay, truth be told, I should say MY MAN ripped apart a pair of lobsters, because those feeler thingies creeped me out. I couldn't do it. Although I did do the claws. Aren't you proud? I could totally survive on a desert island. Or a Hunger Games.

They were delicious, bytheway. Must've been fiesty.

As a sidenote, upon dismembering my lobster, I found out she was female. There was the telltale red "coral" in her abdomen. Apparently it's a delicacy, but I didn't eat it. I draw the line at eating female reproductive organs. Call it solidarity, if you will.

Then we torched our creme brulees.

The cookbook said you could use the broiler, but that was way too slow. In lieu of a propane torch, we used a lighter. Worked beautifully.

Date #1 was a clear success! Memories were made and palates were satisfied.

Plus also we arranged the lobster heads in the garbage can to totally scare the crap out of my little sister.

*grins*