This was a brilliant accomplishment for me. Our nights in restaurants often consisted of searching our food for traces of a flavor or subtle hint of herb the other had not detected. He usually won.

Our obsession with food carried over to our lovemaking. We found ourselves unable to reach ultimate satisfaction without a Grand Marnier truffle on the nightstand. Fortunately, our competitive spirit did not follow us into the bedroom.

I have now spent nearly two years reacquainting myself with gastronomy and other sensual pleasures. I have become more comfortable in the kitchen, though I still stick to fail-safe recipes.

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For our last encounter, I dug through an arsenal of recipes in an attempt to find a dessert that would outdo the summer pudding. I found it in the star dessert of my short-lived home-baking business 10 years before: cassata alla Siciliana -- five layers of moist poundcake, interspersed with a sweetened ricotta filling laced with Strega and chunks of chocolate and nuts, finished with a buttery chocolate frosting. A dessert certain to inspire hours of erotic indulgence.

But it had been years since I last created the confection, and I was unquestionably nervous. I started preparations the day before his arrival. By 9 o'clock that night, I was tired and still had a ways to go. As I rushed through the filling, I forgot to drain the ricotta -- a necessary step to ensure that the mixture would be gratifyingly thick and rich. Watching it mingle with the sugar in my KitchenAid, I knew I was in trouble. It looked like ricotta soup. My heart dropped to my knees.

I panicked and paced and finally came up with a solution: I folded a pint of whipped cream into the chilled confection. My substitution created a new recipe that outdid the original. I was both ecstatic and relieved. I completed the cake at midnight and crawled into bed, marveling at my culinary initiative and artistry. I was beginning to experience those old feelings again. Could this be? Was I once more falling in love with cooking?

My lover arrived the next day, tired and hungry. After I'd presented braised salmon seasoned with dill and lemon, accompanied by spring green asparagus, we spent some time reacquainting ourselves. Then I served the dessert.

Looking him straight in the eyes, I grilled him on the composition of the cake. He sputtered, then folded, falling dismally short. I smiled. This relationship looked like it had potential. Not only was I falling in love again with my first lover, I was also falling in love again with my first art.

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