Yesterday, January 6, was the twelfth day of Christmas, a.k.a. the Epiphany, a.k.a the day that that guy or girl gets a partridge in a pear tree and a boatload of other weird stuff from his or her true love. They say that love means never having to say you're sorry, but I say it means not sending someone you love live poultry. Anyway, this year, January 6 was also the Golden Globes. And, as usual, my birthday. (Fun fact: Past Golden Globe winner Eddie Redmayne and I share a birthday and birth year. You'll get why that's relevant later.)
When it comes to birthdays, most people fall into one of two camps: people who love them and people who hate them. Spoiler alert: I fall into the former (as does anyone who regularly writes about herself). This year, I turned thirty-seven. Ten or even five years ago, this would've struck me as en route to old and yesterday, as if on cue, one of my rogue white hairs resurfaced. But then I got carded to sit in the bar at a restaurant. So I'm going to say I broke even.
The husband baked me this cake. It's a hummingbird cake, which, in case you don't know, is a spice cake with pineapples, carrots, and bananas (also walnuts, but I said no to those). I'm ashamed to say that when he first told me he wanted to make it, I was less than gracious because I thought I wanted something -- gulp -- store-bought. I didn't like the idea of someone else, even the husband, choosing my birthday cake flavor and, um, aesthetic. Typing this now, that seems absurd. But sometimes I have tunnel vision and choose style over substance (as evidenced by my use of the word "aesthetic" to describe baked goods). In the end I realized that having a husband who loves me enough to make something special and personal from the heart for me (not to mention my family) is worth more than some designer stale cake that a minimum wage baker sweat/spit/dropped boogies in before going home to beat his chihuahua. (Don't look at me like that -- you don't know what goes on at Entenmann's.) The hummingbird cake was, of course, scrumptious, a cross between carrot cake and banana bread, both tropical and down-home delicious. Also, it was lovely to look at, with a hummingbird not only in it (figuratively speaking; I think that's the pineapple), but on it. We see you, "Portlandia."
I'm not sure why I told that story. It certainly doesn't put me in the best light. Maybe because it helped me purge my conscience. But also, I think, because it taught me that birthdays aren't just about you and what you want (or, for that matter, Eddie Redmayne). They're about the people who love you. That was a little more Hallmark network than IFC, but sometimes schmaltz can't be avoided.
Pulling a face in my new parka.
Crafty in the craft room (did I really just type that?!). A prize goes out to anyone who can spot the Mr. Crabs, Hello Kitty, and creepy cupcake doll. No promises that the prize isn't a chihuahua. Or live poultry.
With the husband post great cake debate.
Kickin' it before the big birthday hoedown. Because, boots.
Love may mean never having to say you're sorry and not sending live poultry. But sometimes it does mean swallowing a little crow.
Or, in this case, hummingbird.