In one of the more bizarre cultural developments in Western civilization, a certain priest (or series of priests) named Valentine watches annually from heaven as we creatures here below eradicate his memory, calling little pieces of glossy paper with Hannah Montana on them "Valentine" instead. It's an extraordinarily odd phenomenon, especially since we don't call those green plastic bowlers people wear in Chicago "Patrick," or those decorated trees we prop up in our living room "Jesus."
The association of St. Valentine with romance has to do with medieval Christians pegging his February 14 feast with the date that birds began to pair up.
Therefore, in the spirit of the original setting of this feast, my wife and I are headed off to a local hatchery to pick up three Black Barred Plymouth Rock chicks. Wish me cluck!
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