Every year, ‘round about anniversary time, my husband can be seen hunting and pecking in Google. I play dumb-no mean feat-until he turns to me and says, “Do you know the gift for the 14th anniversary?”

“Diamonds,” I respond.

“No. Ivory,” he replies, “And you say ‘diamonds’ every year.”

Well, I think to myself, then why do you ask me? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results is a major sign of mental illness…but I don’t tell him that. Diamonds it is, and diamonds it shall remain come anniversary time, birthday, Groundhog’s Day, whatever. It isn’t as though I always get them, but that’s what the gift would be, in a perfect world.

But, what to get him? For the most part, he finds presents to be a terrific waste of time (we are a mixed marriage). He’ll hem and haw about a new guitar, but only HE can pick it out. Cashmere socks are absurd, he doesn’t need more sweaters, he wears scrubs at work, he’ll buy his own music, thank you, and the books he gets at the exchange downstairs in our apartment’s basement work for him. Every now and again, he’ll splurge on something for the summer bungalow, but I don’t really think that counts as a gift for him, especially since our daughters hog anything electronic. Not that there is anything wrong with that.

For years I agonized-okay, I didn’t actually agonize, but I was troubled. But now, whatever the occasion I know what to do: I log onto JoMart and order him the halvah steaks dipped in dark chocolate. It’s a no-brainer, and he actually is thrilled when I surprise him with them. He has a ritual whereby, after dinner, he carefully sculpts a section off the huge hunk, places it on a plate, and cuts it into slivers, which he delicately eats. My husband is a big guy with a bigger appetite, so there are few times his culinary actions can be described as “delicate.” The girls and I delight in ordering them for him for no specific occasion, as there are few more delightful family moments than when he starts foraging through the goodies bin and sees an untouched JoMart box. We can actually see the synapse spring into life as his face lights up.

So, a kiss on the hand might work in some families, but if it ain’t carats or halvah, pass us by. Thanks, guys!

Elise Cagan

Infamy@aol.com