January 17, my favorite day of the year. Because that’s the ONE DAY a year that I have left-over birthday cake for breakfast.
As you may or may not know, I like to make myself a blue birthday cake each January 16th, to go with my favorite blue teacups.
(From top to bottom: souvenir tea cup from my 1996 visit to Althorp, birthplace of Princess Diana; souvenir tea cup from my 1992 visit to Buckingham Palace; souvenir tea cup from my Christmas 2010 visit to Locust Grove Farm in upstate New York).
I’ve been baking my yearly blue birthday cake for, oh, fifteen years. Every year, I try my best (no, really) to make a beautiful blue birthday cake.
Now, I know I’m not a gifted baker, but for the past fourteen years my cakes at least taste a whole lot better than they look.
This year, the cake tastes just like it looks.
(Do you think it’s OK to feed blue birthday cake to the birds?)
Good thing the birthday champagne never falls flat.
(So, What’s it like to be 55 years old?,you ask. I’ll tell you. It’s giving up nightly bar hopping for nice, cosy beddie-byes with your own hubby and a good book only to find that you’re at the age when even after a good night’s sleep you wake up and look hung over anyway. Clean living don’t mean a freaking thing at my age.)
But no matter: this is a day of celebration. This year we are commemorating 1956, a very good year:
And for Vivian Swift.
Out with the blue birthday cakes; in with the blue snow angels.
(BTW: Top Cat took these pictures at 5:10 PM, January 16th, after only the first two of many, many glasses of champagne. The hell with it. As long as I’m going to look hung over, I might as well be hung over.)
P.S. I’m going to a literary soiree this evening, the first of 2011, to see my agent Betsy Lerner (author of the book that got me started as a writer, The Forest For The Trees, out now in its new second edition) at McNally Jackson Bookstore, 52 Prince Street in Greenwich Village in Manhattan at 7pm. Betsy will be “in conversation”with Glenn Kurtz about What’s Wrong With Writers.
On Friday I will tell you all what I find out, which you will be free to apply to whatever other occupation you find the most annoying.
(Writers are not the most warped people in the work force, as I’m sure you all know. For instance, bellhops and accountants . . . they scare me, they’re so wierd. Right?)