Friday, February 4, 2011

Blueberry Muffins and Cinammon Raisin Bread

Here are some ways I remember when my birthday is fast approaching:
  1. Something about football. Whatever. Score another run, fellas. Swish and stuff. Hat tricks.
  2. It starts to get so cold outside that my body begins sweating majestic snow flakes at an alarming rate.
  3. My dad and I discuss dinner plans.
Adorably enough, my dad's birthday is the day before mine and Babe Ruth's. So over the last forever, no matter where either of us have been at the time, my dad and I have celebrated our birthdays together. And Babe Ruth's. Mostly Babe Ruth's. Then last year we just didn't. I was out in Colorado drinking flaming drinks and Pisco Sours, he was boozin on Bourbon Street (he was not boozin' Bourbon Street but he could have been) and much like the twain, the two of us ne'er did meet. (I think I did that right?)

But while we missed each others' birthdays that weekend, we still got to celebrate them together. A week later, my dad made sure to drop everything (just kidding, he's retired) because I asked him to come out to Colorado on a day's notice just to hang out with me. And take me out to dinner. Oh we ate so many dinners!

So it's my birthday on Sunday. And my dad won't be here to eat dinner with me for the second year in a row. But it's his birthday on Saturday. And I won't be there to eat dinner with him for the second year in a row. I could wait to give him a present when he comes to visit later this month but you only turn very very very (very) elderly (60) once (thank God) and you better fucking believe my dad will celebrate it with a package of Blueberry Muffins, a loaf of Cinnamon Raisin Bread, and the painstaking task of deciding where we're going to eat over President's Day weekend.

My what judging cinnamon swirly eyes you have!

Ball's in your court, Daddy. Happy birthday eve!

PS: 23 and 363 days and 114.5.

1 comment:

  1. Mmmmm. Even though I won't be receiving them until tomorrow, I'm gaining weight already!