September seems quite the popular month for birthdays. Makes you wonder what kind of holiday parties were being thrown nine months previously, unless it was good ole cozying-by-the-fire kind of romance typical of pioneer sagas.  Alas, poor Aries, ‘tis the time for Virgos and their unending discipline and order.  Last night I co-hosted an intimate birthday dinner with my firstmate cohort, Rachel L, in honor of our mutual friend, Rachel K (I seem to have an affinity to this name), an already-accomplished and attractively-hot theater director recently returned from an international seminar in Italy. All this and she just turned 24.    

 

Birthdays are funny- people either seem to love ‘em or hate ‘em.  Guys, especially, love to loathe this holiday-- perhaps they were bullied by balloon animals when they were kids, or were made to dress up in girls’ clothes by their frou-frou mothers-- either way, it’s the ladies who really get off on the whole “celebrate me for a day/week/month” thing.  Is it because we always put others first that we feel we deserve a little extra TLC once a year?  Sounds a bit Oprah to me.  Personally, I love birthdays simply because it’s a great time to say, “I’m glad you’re alive and my friend and I respect you and you’re not sleazy like other people I know.  Let’s take this moment to reflect and eat this fluffy cake and drink lots of fizzy drinks.”

  

And so back to the party.

 

We shared some easy crostinis (a sideline excuse of mine to clean out all those little jars of half-used condiments in the fridge), dotted with a variety of pesto, olive pate, and even apple butter, that complemented the sharp white cheddar, havarti, and apple-smoked swiss cheeses that topped them.  The birthday girl seemed content, as quoted, “You know, I would be content with piles of cheese and bread as the main meal.” (Aren’t we all?)  A few bottles of red wine and Rachel L’s cool shrimp watermelon salad later, ‘twas time to bring out the dessert-- a decadently-rich flourless chocolate cake with real whipped cream (handshaken by a feisty Rachel L), fresh raspberries, and an original chocolate/raspberry sauce.  Sigh.  Ironically, the cake is called a Cloud Cake, and the only reasoning for this that I could see was for the fluffy whipped cream.  This having Nigella origins, the calories were endless-- but, of course, totally worth it;  the evening ended with everyone deliriously sated and exchanging massive cheek-kisses before waddling home for the night.  Later, on the train, while surmising with reluctant glee the mounds of calories consumed during the soiree, I concluded how this is probably the best way to gauge one’s affections for their loved ones-- the higher the weight gain, the more you’re proving you’d risk your life (via heart bypass surgery) to save them.