I am not the most romantic guy in the world, but on Valentine's Day last year, I decided to surprise my sweetie with a special, home-made dinner.

A bottle of Mimosa from Trader Joes, some chocolates from Marlene's and as the centerpiece of the meal, a nice organic turkey loaf, her favorite.

A phone call to Mom got me straightened out on the recipe, which I promptly ignored, and as I smooshed up the ingredients that I like, a brilliant idea struck me: why not make the meatloaf in the shape of a heart?

I tossed the meatloaf pan aside and found a larger baking dish where I dropped the fixings in and molded the meat into a classic symbol of love.

It looked downright festive with a ketchup glazing and a piercing arrow made with a flourish of mustard. Into the oven it went. That's when the trouble began.

While I have admitted to not being very romantic, I'm probably more romantic than I am a good cook.

When the bell rang on the oven, it was a surprise, all right. The poor, shrunken, misshapen token of love looked like it needed a double bypass.

While I waited for the Domino's guy to show up, I felt like I should still try to do something special, so I read up on the origins of Valentine's Day.

Seems it traces back to the ancient Roman celebration of Lupercalia, the the festival of Lupercus, the god of fertility.

Lupercus was usually represented as a half-naked deity clad only in goat skins.

There was a purification ritual that Romans enjoyed which involved drinking lots of wine and running through the streets of Rome touching anyone they could, while holding pieces of goat skin over their heads.

Young ladies would come out of their houses voluntarily because, to be touched by a half-naked, goat-skin clutching drunkard apparently signified a blessing of fertility and easy childbirth. (Those crazy Romans).

As the holiday made its way across Europe, the English appropriated it and brought it with them to the New World.

Quaint traditions abound from those times, such as the practice of young ladies to say out loud the names of desirable suitors whilst twisting the stem of an apple. When the stem pops off, that is the person you will marry. If you then cut the apple in half and count the seeds, you will know how many children you will have with your new paramour.

Some people used to believe that if a woman saw a robin flying overhead on Valentine's Day, it meant she would marry a sailor.

If she saw a sparrow, she would marry a poor man and be very happy.

If she saw a goldfinch, she would marry a millionaire.

Mrs. Anthony was due home any moment. There was no time to rustle up a goat skin and I was out of apples, so I put a Mario Lanza CD in, hung bells around both of the dog's necks to make them sound like goats and crumbled some goat cheese into the salad.

I recycled an old Christmas card with some scotch tape and an ink pen, writing 'Happy Lupercalia!' on the inside.

Because I knew she'd never go for me being half-naked at the dinner table, I opted for a sheet from the guest bed and a hastily assembled head wreath made from sprigs I got out of the box hedge in the neighbors yard. (by the way, thanks, Neil.)

In the end, the dinner was a hit, and though she wondered if Lupercalia was contagious, Mrs. A was sufficiently swept from her feet.

Also, no goats were harmed and the dogs loved the turkey loaf.

May your Valentine's Day be as memorable.