The Valentine's Days of my youth always began with the discovery of a tiny, 4-pack Whitman's sampler on my breakfast plate. These were dispensed by my dad, and each kid in the family got a small box. If it were just candy, that would be exciting enough, but it was more than that. It was the tiny box with its cellophane wrapping and yellow, old-fashioned logo. It was the cool, dark inside, with each candy nestled in its own little, brown paper nest. It was the fact that everybody got his or her own box, making sharing optional. It was the fact that I could eat them for breakfast if I wanted to, or savor them slowly throughout the day. And it was the fact that they came from Dad.

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