I didn’t get around to posting last week, but I have an extremely good excuse that I plan to employ again a year from now.
It was my birthday.
I baked this cake.
Or rather, I baked myself this birthday liver pâté.
To celebrate, I took a train out of the city to spend the day with a close friend who lives in Princeton. I greeted her at the train station with a sheepish grin on my face. Our birthdays are usually cause for part-reflection, part-lamentation over the state of our lives. Year after year, we never seem to accomplish as much as we’d like or visit enough of the wondrous places in this wide world. Still, we almost always try our best, and that has to count for something.
The night was dark and snowy. Ample flakes fell relentlessly as the evening progressed. Inside, we cranked up the thermostat to a toasty eighty degrees and lit a few candles to mark the occasion. A good crusty loaf accompanied the birthday pâté, and a glass or two of wine made the evening considerably more celebratory.