Three days to Valentine’s Day. It’s a shame that we’ve forgotten the origins of Saint Valentine’s Day. In 269 A.D., by order of the prefect of Rome, Valentine was beaten with clubs and then beheaded. I think it would be appropriate for each of us to commemorate his day by selecting someone to beat with clubs and then behead.
I went to Tea & Sympathy (my new favorite place) in the west village with a date last week. I ordered the afternoon tea (which I highly recommend) and my date ordered the Welsh rabbit. When our food arrived, after we had eaten for a little while, I asked him, “So how’s the Welsh rabbit?” He said, in a very cheerful tone, “Well, first of all, it’s Welsh rarebit, and it’s very good.”
This is not a person I need in my life.
First of all, anyone who insists that “rarebit” is preferable to “rabbit” is pretentious.
Second of all, he is wrong. The Oxford English Dictionary lists 1725 as the first appearance in English of the term “Welsh rabbit,” almost certainly a borrowing from the French “lapin gallois”; not until 1785 does “Welsh rarebit” appear, probably as a “corrected” version of the name of a dish that has no rabbit in it.
Not that I have a thing about being right or anything.
And I wonder why I don’t have a boyfriend.