A Bit of an Anniversary Story–

22 01 2009

Sunday was me and Stan’s (I know that’s not correct English, but I just had to include that nod to my hometown) anniversary. Twelve years.

That’s right. TWELVE YEARS.

It’s particularly amazing because there’s no way I’m old enough to have been married that long.

Actually, though, I am and we have been.

Because of some crazy goings-on last week (Pack Meeting, Stake Conference, special fireside) we decided to go ahead and celebrate on Thursday night. Several friends of ours had told us about The Melting Pot, a fondue restaurant, and I’d been wanting to try it out for awhile, so that’s where we ended up.

Stan called ahead and got us a reservation. When we arrived, 15 minutes later than our reservation time, it was a full five minutes before anyone even acknowledged us, and that was basically to say, “Oh, I’m not the hostess. He’ll be right with you.”

Five minutes after that, he came and seated us. So far, I wasn’t exactly impressed with the service. When we got to our table, there was a gorgeous red rose in a classy arrangement.


What can I say? I’m a┬ásucker for a red rose with waxflower and salal.

Anyway, here are a few more pictures of us fondueing—


They have hot plates right on the table, which reminded me of fondue growing up. We’d always put the electric fondue pot in the middle of the table, and the cord would stretch across to the plug. It’s truly amazing no one ever tripped on that and doused a sibling in boiling oil.


(Looking at this, I guess I do look old enough to have been married twelve years. Darn.)


This is the cheese course, my favorite part I think. After the cheese, we had salads (not fondued).


This is the meat course. Unlike meals in my youth, we cooked the meat in broth as opposed to oil. There was filet mignon, chicken, shrimp, and spinach ravioli. Surprisingly, I liked the ravioli the best. I think if I’m going to eat steak, I want it to be a steak, grilled and with a baked potato. I didn’t think it had much flavor this way. The chicken was good, though.


This is about half of our dessert plate–a chocolate fondue. That was . . . okay. I don’t know, but I expected it to be better. The experience was fun and different, but overall I’d have to say the food was . . . all right. Overpriced, certainly, but Stan’s company actually paid for it. (They don’t make it a habit of paying for our anniversary meals; I think it was guilt because Stan had worked through dinner most of the week. “Take your wife out to dinner,”┬áhis manager said. “Up to $100.” So, hey—we did.)

With the anniversary package, they take your picture and put it in a little sleeve, like Homecoming. We waited at the front desk for a few minutes, and then Stan said, “Let’s just go.”

“No, we are getting that picture,” I said. “We paid for it.” The host was really not my favorite person.

While we waited, Stan took a few pictures on our camera.


The point was to have us BOTH in the picture, you know, because it was our anniversary.

The host finally noticed us standing around, came forward and said, “Oh. Your picture. Right.”

He took one, deleted it, then took another.

We waited while he ducked into the office to print it. It felt like a long time.

He came out, handed me the picture, and said, “Have a nice night.”

I looked at the picture and almost started laughing out loud. Instead, I grabbed Stan’s arm, said, “Thanks,” over my shoulder, and walked out the door. Quickly. Because I really needed to laugh.

In the picture, Stan’s eyes were all funny. I realized right off that stemmed from some inexpert photo-shopping (forgive me, Adobe, for using “Photoshop” as a verb) to get rid of Stan’s red-eye.

It wasn’t until we got home, however, and Stan took a closer look at our beautiful anniversary photo that he discovered what at first appeared to be inept photo editing was actually a bit more primitive: ball point pen.

No kidding.

We don’t have an accessible scanner, or I would share it with you in all its glory.

I admit it had to be done. After all, it puts a bit of a damper on the anniversary when the husband looks possessed, doesn’t it?

(Also, in my rush to leave and laugh, I left my rose on the counter. Curses!)