Mom's birthday

It was everything it should've been, and then some.

When your own mother is having a prestigious birthday, you want perfection. At least, I do. As I planned and made lists and scrubbed and sweated last week, I examined and re-examined the interior of my mind, and why I was driven to such a minor frenzy. The answer: it's my mom, silly, the woman to whom I owe my existence. Of course I'm cleaning with Q-tips, double-steaming the rugs, applying lemon chiffon frosting in patient, studied curves with the blade of an offset spatula. At five, it was piles of crayon hearts; at fifteen, red geraniums planted in her flower pots. Now, at 27, it's dinner parties and calico buntings and lemon curd layer cakes with chiffon frosting.

The Menu

Asparagus and Mushroom tarts
Spring Vegetables
Couscous with Fennel and pine nuts
Spring green salad with creamy chive dressing
Lemon curd layer cake

Beforehand, there was the requisite Grandpa Time for Diesel. (My Dad, lover of all dogs small and large, is quickly becoming Diesel's favorite grandparent.)

Dinner is served. This why I garden: the recipe called for pea tendrils, and pea tendrils I had. And plenty.

I cobbled together a bouquet of chive flowers, lily of the valley, euonymous, and rhubarb stalks. Has rhubarb ever been used in a bouquet before?

Haaaappy biiirthdaaay tooo yooouuu...

After cake, we went out to a bar with an oldies cover band, and Mom stayed groovin' and on her feet until after midnight. Her happy and proud daughter (that's me) was right there groovin' by her side.

Being an only child isn't always a picnic. In fact, as I get older I find myself wanting a sibling more and more. But this, I will say, is a definite perk: feeling more like a friend or sister than a child, and knowing her appreciation and love and approval is all for me.

Happy Birthday, Mom.