Today is youngest daughter’s birthday. Yes, it was so much fun being the size of an oil drum during July that I did it twice. Our son’s birthday was yesterday and today is Pogo’s. Happy Birthday, dear daughter. . . .
The two are far enough apart in years (8!) that combo birthday celebrations were not logical, so while August 1 might mean a yard-long sub and a round of golf with his pals for son, August 2 was girly, like her Strawberry Shortcake doll party. Remember the little dolls that smelled fruity?
All three of our children had perennial favorite birthday requests: son always wanted “cherry-o cheese pie,” one of those Kraft recipes with the cherry pie filling that is so sweet our dentist marked the date on HIS calendar. Pogo’s favorite was strawberry cake, the recipe with strawberries mixed in with the cake batter. It had cream cheese frosting with more strawberries in it. Daughter Boo, in case you’re wondering, preferred red velvet cake.
Our children liked their birthday desserts RED.
When Dearly Beloved was a kid in second grade, the cafeteria ladies brought the lunch trays in to the classrooms for the students since the school cafeteria had burned and the food was prepared off-site. One day the divided plate set in front of him held the usual vegetables, but one section contained a scoop of a fluffy white concoction with enticing red flecks peeking through. He couldn’t believe his luck! “STRAWBERRY ICE CREAM!” he thought, and dove right in, ignoring the vegetables.
Nope. Cottage cheese with pimiento.
He still whines about that some sixty years later, considering it pure treachery. No amount of explaining that ice cream wouldn’t have been on his plate can convince him that malice aforethought was not involved. He still doesn’t like cafeterias and doesn’t like cottage cheese, cream cheese, or sour cream. The man can flat out hold a grudge. I have always wondered if there is a whole generation from that group causing flagging dairy sales in the area, or if he was the only clueless little kid in the class.
I mention that incident because for years, on the first two days of August, he ate cream cheese with a smile and a song and leftovers. There were plenty of leftovers with back-to-back birthdays, so for one week each year he ate dairy. And loved it. Both of us would like nothing better than to be eating strawberry cake with them all today, wondering how to get the leftover cake in the fridge with the rest of the giant cherry cheese pie already taking up half a shelf.
Archie and Edith Bunker weren’t just whistling Dixie. Those WERE the days!
Today, however is another commemorative day, although no swollen ankles or morning sickness were involved in the production. I happened to notice that it’s my one-year blog anniversary. After Pogo set it up for me with instructions to WRITE, weeks went by before I sat down and timidly did so. Weeks more passed before I told anyone about it. My reticence was unnecessary. If you want to see someone’s eyes glaze over, try the phrase, “I write a blog.”
It’s like saying, “I have slides of my chldren’s birth.”
(Not to worry kiddos, I did not have you gracefully with just a bead of sweat on my forehead. There were sound effects I’m still trying to forget, so there are definitely no movies.)
I suppose I could use the blogaversary as an excuse to bake a cake, but since I whine about my weight all the time, that wouldn’t be a smart idea.
We should mark the occasion, however, especially since it’s a special week for our family.
Maybe a bowl of strawberries over cottage cheese.