Whose Birthday Is This?!

Still wearing our Christmas clothes, Joe & I celebrate with a shared birthday cake, eight candles on his side and three on mine. (No, that's not my coffee!)

Today’s my birthday. Never mind which one. I’m past the age of wanting to count them–certainly past the age of adding “and-a-half” long about mid-summer.

I’ve always felt ambivalent about birthdays. While I enjoy celebrating those of others, when it comes to my own, I’ve grown accustomed to being lost in the holiday shuffle. For starters, my birthday comes close on the heels of Christmas, so I grew up being handed a red-and-green wrapped gift with the words, “This is for both Christmas and birthday.” No kid–or adult–wants to hear that. Add to this the fact that my brother’s birthday is three days after mine. Our family always celebrated both on the Sunday falling closest to both, with Joe’s candles on one side of the cake and mine on the other. We grew up modestly on a Tennessee farm amongst hardworking, practical people who didn’t make a fuss over such things as birthdays. It’s no wonder there were no parties and family legends of blowouts fit for the society column of the local newspaper. And it’s no wonder that nowadays if someone does make a fuss over my birthday, I get self conscious, turn red and want to hide.

When I was a kid I envied those whose birthdays were in July, who had parties at the local swimming pool. That seemed like the coolest thing ever–I couldn’t imagine anything more glamorous. But quite often my birthday was on a snow day, which was even better. “Wow! We’re out of school on my birthday! Let’s sleep late and then build a snow fort!” And make snow cream, which no July birthday kid ever got.

Celebrating with Himself--I don't mind sharing!

Now I often celebrate my birthday with Himself, whose birthday falls a week before mine. He got caught in the Christmas-and-birthday snag, too, so he understands those conflicted feelings of disappointment in being overlooked and then not knowing what to do when people pay attention. Some years we celebrate jointly. Some we don’t. This year he got his own celebration.

And today I get mine. People keep asking what restaurant we’re going to, the assumption being that with my culinary background and being a professional food writer, we’ll be splashing out at one of the poshest places in Los Angeles. But that’s seldom what I go for. I’ve had great birthday meals at Palate, Osteria Mozza and Bashan, but last year I wanted to stay in. Himself and our friend John made a huge batch of pot stickers and we feasted on a basic meal prepared with love and served from the heart. It was a fantastic evening.

Sometimes I feel like my friends are disappointed if I don’t come up with some grand scheme for celebrating my birthday. Which makes me wonder if I’m planning the birthday I really want or the birthday others seem to want for me. This year I think I want nothing more complicated than a trove of really good ice cream and a couple of spoons. Perhaps Himself and I can eat ice cream in front of the television and watch DVDs of something we love but haven’t seen in ages. And laugh and enjoy being together.

Who needs a limo, a budget-smashing restaurant charge and a three-alarm hangover? Ice cream with Himself is celebration enough for me.