All the members of my San Diego family gathered for a belated birthday dinner for me this evening. They included my mom, of course, two siblings, a nephew, his girlfriend, my favorite niece and a brother-in-law. There were no gifts, as is always my want. (Lisa! But thanks for the poop calendar.)
This was the first time in recent memory that mom didn’t ask what I would like for my birthday dinner (wienerschnitzel with mashed potatoes and red cabbage), but I was totally fine with the choice of spaghetti and garlic bread. I do love spaghetti and garlic bread, especially with a tall glass of cold milk.
My mom took the extra step with my cake of designing my Hungarian nickname “Peti” and age (mumble/muffle) into the two-tone batter before baking. Unfortunately, that meant no frosting on top, but the cake was still really good.
Another year down, who knows how many to go. That’s why I feel it’s so important to journal events, even the seemingly insignificant ones. (My birthday is not one of the insignificant ones.) Nobody should ever eventually become nothing more than a series of hard-to-remember memories.
Now I’m hungry for spaghetti again.
