Completing the turn of rural birthdays, George spent his in relative solitude, just the two of us having dinner in on a Thursday evening. We'd gone to eat the previous weekend with his family at an Italian buffet in KC, a gluttony of pasta and garlic it's best not repeat regularly. For his actual birthday dinner, more pasta, of course (secretly whole wheat this time), with a stack of parmesan rolls on the side. This is traditionally followed by a Dairy Queen ice cream cake. Which I bought. When we pulled it out, we found it sadly reminiscent of our wedding cake, tilting and malformed. Funny. Still, it seemed about right for a cake from Garnett.
Even proud birthday boys have to eat salad.