My private, breakfast celebration involved the death of an owl cupcake
named Franco and the best cup of almond biscotti tea.
For my birthday, I played the video of my family singing to me from earlier that month, followed by my sister's charming birthday voicemail, more of a gospel rendition she improvised. Then I opened my mom's card telling me where to find the gifts she hid for me in my own house — awesome! — and my sister-in-laws lovely bracelet. A dinner out in our new digs didn't seem as much of a treat as trial, so we stayed in. I made cupcakes with owl faces on them, a fun recipe from my sister's earlier gift, and ate one for breakfast and one for supper. Altogether a great day.
Now I'm 32, another number that should have more meaning than they ever do. And on to my New Year's wishes, now only slightly behind.