It’s probably rather belated to be announcing this via the world wide ether, but since yesterday (August 12th) was my birthday, I’m claiming my birthday-ial prerogative to say what I want, and–
–and there goes the punch line. Oops. My friends always did tell me I was the worst joke-teller in the world. Guess these things don’t really change with age, huh?
Anyway, Happy Belated Birthday, Me!
I never really understood the people who get really, really melancholic when their birthday tumbles around like a jolly rolly-poly each year. The only living creature that’s allowed to get marginally depressed about a day that’s all about celebrating you, in my opinion, is Eeyore, and that’s only because he A.A. Milne is a genius, may he rest in peace. Plus, he–that is, the donkey–is just so darn cute.
Of course, I can only imagine what Eeyore would say in that slow, gloomy voice of his if he saw this cake (I’ll tell you why in a second):
Okay, here’s the secret: I didn’t actually get to eat any yet.
Thanks, Eeyore. I can feel your gloomy sympathetic vibrations. (Haunted Mansion reference, anyone? No? Okay, never mind…I’ve obviously been reading too much of the amazing Disneyland Encyclopedia I got myself as an early “birthday present.”)
This is the world’s best, most nostalgia-filled ice cream cake ever known to mankind. I exaggerate. And again, I cite my belated-birthday-prerogative to do so. It’s the best. Period. Mocha almond fudge ice cream stuffed inside a smooth, I-don’t-know-to-this-day-how-they-do-it-chocolate-ganache/frosting with green icing and frosted with chopped nuts. YUM.
If anyone has any ideas about how I can put Baskin Robbins out of business by replicating this frosting, I would not be opposed at all.
That being said, as a very loyal customer…ahem…
I ask for this cake every single year we’re at home for my birthday. For the past few years, all I’ve gotten was a
lousy slightly less satisfactory ice cream pie version of this. It’s not nearly as good. It’s like trying to compare a vacation to Disneyland with, say, a “vacation” to your local petting zoo. Sure, the latter’s quaint. No, it’s never going to be as good. And your parents need to stop pretending it is, suck it up, and get you the real deal. (But hey, I love my parents anyway.)
At any rate, we didn’t eat this cake because I spent Saturday celebrating my birthday a day early with my friends. We bought a carrot cake and served the ice cream bon-bombes I made for the occasion because a) it would feed more mouths, and b) frankly, I’m
extremely territorial when it comes to my ice cream cake (hey, you would be too if you got to eat it only once every 365 days) so generous and thought ahead about how my small, six-inch round ice cream cake wouldn’t feed all of my friends. So kind. It must come with, erm, the maturity of age. Yeah.
My mom still babies me when I come home and cooks me up feasts like I’m a starving, helpless newborn. I generally try not to correct this mistaken impression.
Helpless? Sure I am. Newborn? Uhhh…yeah, if you say so. Does that mean I get to eat this stuff every night?
Anyway, every year I’m reminded of why I love turning a year older. I lied earlier when I said that it’s a day about celebrating you–it’s really a day about celebrating the fact that you can share your day with everybody else around you that you care about. And every year I’m reminded that every day should be, you know, birthday status. (The birthday girl privileges, while obviously not a given, would be a nice side perk to keep around.)
For my birthday, my mom made me my favorite dish ever–Chinese chicken salad, a la mom. It’s seriously one of the only meat dishes I will ask to eat, and so worth every extra carbon footprint I add by eating it. (Of course, I would just as happily eat a tofu and/or soy meat variation on this–but that’s pure unheard-of nonsense in my household. “You want meat sub-ee-whaaa?” they say. “Eat chicken. Good for you.” I grossly exaggerate. And now I digress.)
You can also tell when the carnivore, a.k.a. my brother is around for dinner, because then the whole cow comes out on the groaning table.
My friends came over to our newly-recarpeted place and spent all of Saturday night burning the night oil playing board games, solving logic puzzles, and being completely conniving jerks in a game called Revolution. It’s sort of like Mafia, but everybody gets to play, and nobody gets killed–it’s all about reading other people’s ability to lie and trying to collaborate to figure out who’s on your team.
I’m a huge fan of backstabbing/deceit games (apparently I’m the worst person to play Munchkins with; I’m a notoriously good con-woman, which should serve as a warning sign of…something?). My palms were seriously sweaty; I was a government spy for five turns in a row, and by the end of the last game of the night at two in the morning, my friend said that his heard had been torn a million times throughout the night because he trusted me so many times.
Oops. Sorry, bud.
It was, however, an awesome start to a new age, and it was killer getting to pass a birthday midnight with my crew. On the actual day of my birthday, my parents bought us all Les Mis tickets!
Now, I’ve seen my fair share of very good musicals–Wicked, Rent, Lion King, Phantom, the list goes on and on–and this was definitely in the top three. I’ve (slightly shamefully) never heard anything about the storyline, much less read Hugo’s complete Les Mis, but I enjoyed the performance so much. Not only were the singers stellar–the men who sang for Jean Valjean and Javert were amazing–but the actors just drew you in in a way that is so difficult for musicals to achieve in good faith.
I loved everything from the revolution story, to the personal story of a converted convict, to the tragic and happy fates of the lovers. It was all beautifully done, and I would see it again in a heartbeat. Plus I guess it didn’t hurt that Marius was such a good looker, huh?
Only kidding. Sort of.
Yeah, not really.
Anyway, remember what I said earlier about ice cream cakes being my favorite dessert in the world? I lied. Again. What can I say? I’m a chronic liar with backstabbing talents. The CIA should hire me.
This is my favorite dessert–jello cheesecake, made by my auntie. I tried making this once, failed miserably like Les Mis, and stuck to being fed like a foie gras duck. And my aunt made it just for my birthday!
I’m going to post this recipe when I try it again. You need to try this. Just maybe not very soon. My recipe. My cheesecake.
Anyway, the rest of the night was spent with more amazing food and family time. One last thing before I turn in for the night after all the festivities…
Can you guess what this is?
I’ll give you a hint…
Yeah. Weird, right? In the wise words of Erik Per Sullivan the seahorse from finding nemo, it’s…the butt.
And on that incredibly mature, new-age note, I’m off to listen to some Susan Boyle before I go to sleep. NEDFM post for today will have to wait until, er, later today. Happy reading, and happy eatings to y’all!