When I was growing up we got to choose our dinner and dessert, which just seemed like the best possible luxury. Parties were thrown and many special efforts were made to make the day memorable. My favorite birthday, which I recall as being rainy and cold, was celebrated with a party in our basement for myself and I think four or five others. I wore a long ballerina dress, and my mother made tutus for the doll of each attendee to wear sitting on the birthday table. My best friend Nancy wore a real tutu. It was all pink and fabulous and the stuff that girlish dreams used to be made of; not a single branded item in evidence. I don’t think I’ve had a pink birthday since. Another birthday we all had root beer floats for dessert. Sometimes I would ask for apple pie instead of cake because I really only like frosting, not cake. Another birthday my mother knit Barbie (TM) clothes. Those are still in the possession of one of my nieces.
Nothing so fabulous this year. We were supposed to have celebrated while on our three-city vacation, but that got bumped to March. I’ve already asked to have my birthday lunch at El Cellar de Can Roca restaurant in Girona, Spain.