We paced the frozen food aisle with purpose, goosebumps prickling my arms despite my heavy parka. Cold air swirled around us as my eyes locked onto the familiar red bag of Tyson chicken nuggets. I pulled it from the shelf and dropped it beside a limited-edition navy blue Barilla pasta box.
In the parking lot, we breezed past men with flower bouquets and glamorous women in high heels, smirking at each other the entire drive to my apartment. Once home, he hauled the goods onto the counter while I filled a pot with water. This was the first of many Valentine’s Day celebrations that looked like this, and the festivities were about to begin.
Our tradition originated in the depths of senior year of college. Although Ethan — my boyfriend of three years at the time — and I both worked on campus as full-time students, we were living paycheck to paycheck while balancing internships, friends, and an anxious Senior Spring. With our wages boasting an astounding $9 an hour and paychecks arriving biweekly, my money was usually spent twice over on Chipotle and a case of High Noons by the time it hit my account.
Following a turbulent few weeks of holiday shopping, an overpriced New Year’s Eve, and Ethan’s February birthday (shoutout Aquarius men), I had neither the financial nor emotional bandwidth to suggest an extravagant Valentine’s Day dinner at a fancy restaurant. Then, I saw a TikTok advertising Tyson’s heart-shaped “nuggets of love,” and an idea blossomed.
I love cooking. We had barely a cent to our names. And when have I ever passed up a limited-time item? By pairing the nuggets with heart-shaped Barilla pasta, we decided to curate the perfect, most romantic, and ridiculous meal that would make even Cupid jealous. And we could do it all in our pajamas.
When we agreed on this idea, I was mostly excited, even relieved. We could enjoy a night of food that we loved without burning a hole in our wallets. But another part of me felt self-conscious whenever someone asked me about our plans. Were we so cheap that we preferred to save a few bucks rather than spend them on each other? Would people think our relationship wasn’t serious? Almost none of my friends were in relationships at the time. Was I subconsciously choosing to do a low-key dinner because I didn’t want to flaunt my boyfriend in anyone’s face?
Though these thoughts were real, I dismissed them. We didn’t need to indulge in an $85 prefixed menu to exude romance. We were redefining the holiday in a way that fit our lives at the time, and carving our own traditions in a society that constantly tells us how we should act, feel, and celebrate.
While the heart-shaped pasta and nuggets were certainly the centerpiece of the Valentine’s Day dinner, when the 14th arrived, we put intentional effort into making the night different from our usual routine of eating in front of the TV. I went around lighting mismatched candles while he set the tiny table that fit snugly against the wall. I cued Alexa to play a cozy playlist on the speaker, and the silk voices of Etta James and Frank Sinatra filled the air. We swayed across the kitchen tiles, socks grinding against salt particles I’d flipped over my left shoulder after seasoning the pasta water.
Finally, we ate our meal alongside easy conversation, laughing about roommate quandaries as I dunked my golden brown nuggets in ketchup. Dressed in a light Boursin Garlic & Fine Herbs cheese sauce, the pasta gave the illusion of being far more elegant than it was. And even though we were sitting there, in pajamas and high-heel-less, the night couldn’t have felt more special.
In the moment, we didn’t plan for this silly meal to become an annual tradition. It was just a lighthearted placeholder until we could afford to dress up and eat somewhere that brings out the dessert options on a silver platter. But the next year, eating nuggets of love, listening to the music I wanted at an appropriate volume, and dancing in the kitchen was the only thing I wanted.
Food has always been one of my love languages. Most weekends now include a fair amount of dragging Ethan around Boston to try a new restaurant or cafe. As our careers have progressed, we’ve grown into the kind of couple who can afford to celebrate our relationship over a fancy meal, basking in the glow of a moody wine bar. Which is exactly why, every February, our heart-shaped dinner at home means that much more. We don’t stay in because we have to; we stay in because we want to.
This tradition also echoes the best thing about our relationship — how raw and genuine we’ve always been with each other. When you step out into the world, especially on such a high-stakes holiday, it can feel like you’re performing the role of someone deeply in love, locking eyes over a molten lava cake as waiters look on. While that experience certainly has its place in a relationship, it’s not everything. And it’s not us.
This Valentine’s Day, couples might swarm the streets hand in hand, credit cards tucked neatly into bill folders. But up three flights of windy stairs, there will be candles flickering and soft ‘50s music playing. And when Ethan is bent over the sink washing dishes and I’m in the background wiping down counters, just know, that’s exactly where we want to be.