I don’t want to write tonight. I just want to soak in this
day, these forty years, this champagne. I don’t want to write tonight, but I
have to tell you about the most beautiful day I had.
It began with waking to a much healthier little boy. A cake
would be baked.
I was given a present of homemade cherry chocolate biscotti
by my friend Karen and her magic ways in the kitchen. I made my best effort at
eating only two with my coffee this morning.
My husband and son presented me with the most coveted birthday
gift: a luxurious linen apron I’d been dreaming about for months from Fog Linen
Work.
I picked up some lunch at Rogaki, a famous fish market here
in Berlin, which happens to be down the street from where we live. Warning: the
ladies behind the counter can be salty if your German is shoddy.
I made my birthday cake. Recipe: Reine De Saba from Mastering The Art of French Cooking. Mrs. Child can be strict with you. She asks that you collect and
measure all of your ingredients ahead of time. That’s the efficient, practical
way to proceed, but I’m just too impatient. My hubris got the best of me,
however, when I forgot the sugar for my egg whites, nearly half way through
folding them into my batter, wondering why the hell they kept falling.
Everything still tasted incredible, thanks to Julia, but next time I won’t be
so smug.
Lennon is now in bed. Champagne is nearly gone. I’m glad I’m forty. I’m glad I’m here, with these people, with this me. Maybe more glad than any other birthday. Maybe more glad still every year, from this point forward.
