Beouf Bourguignon

Yesterday was a good birthday. It was much like the day I was born in that I couldn't speak. It was less like my original birthday in that I also could not scream, squawk or make much sound at all. My voice vacated my body as a result of whatever the heck it is I'm fighting. Today, the doctor said he thought it was allergies and so then I'm all, "Stupid Utah. First my eyes are allergic to you and now it's my voice." But then I started thinking, this really doesn't explain the fevers.

But yesterday was a good day. Last year my birthday was completely ruined--through no fault of my own family who tried desperately to keep it on life support--so receiving nothing more than a pile of dog poo would have been a step in the right direction. In the afternoon, my husband stayed home with the boys and I went to see Julie & Julia with several women from the church. In my head I thought, Oh Meryl, on several occasions because that woman is just the quintessential actress, the embodiment of "in character", she's like the bread and butter all in one, the great...well, you get the idea. She's good. Really good. All the time. And, okay, so there was this one moment where Amy Adams was totally Giselle but the rest of the movie she was all Julie Powell. Maybe. I mean, I don't actually know Julie Powell personally--the woman boned a duck for goodness sake. But who knew that writing about boeuf bourguignon could earn you 53 comments on a blog (eventually many more, I'm sure) and an article in the The New York Times. I mean, I'll start writing about boeuf borguignon if that's what it takes.

I have fans followers the occasional reader my mom--but heck if she's going to sit here and leave 53 comments. That's just crazy talk. But I wish I could write about baby spit up and potty training and the fact that there is some animal living in one of our walls--more on that later--and get 53 comments the way that boeuf borguignon got 53 comments. In case you're curious, I just like writing boeuf borguignon. Boeuf borguignon. Boeuf borguignon. Oh, my speller checker is going to love me. Anyway. I do need to point out that after watching Julie & Julia for two hours, I desperately wanted to uproot my family and move to a flat above a pizza parlor in Queens. Then I remembered that I don't actually want my kitchen to be three feet by two feet, I don't actually want to use metal garage shelving as a closet, and I don't actually want my bed to be four feet away from the dinner table. Not to mention the fact that I don't actually want two kids, two furry friends, and one husband living in 900 square feet that likely would smell, perpetually, like pepperoni. But for a moment the artist in me forgot all that. The artist in me was deciding which borough I actually wanted to live in.

Anyway, after the movie was over my family took me to dinner at Sweet Tomatoes (no giant tomato this time, folks. Although my son was peering around with wide eyes just waiting for it to jump out and kidnap him.) courtesy of a two for one coupon and a gift card (thanks Sabrina!). Back at home I opened a few presents and had cupcakes (thanks Holly!). It should be noted that, when my son eats a cupcake, he picks all the sprinkles off first. Then he eats the frosting off the top. But he doesn't lick it off. No. That would be uncivilized. Instead, he uses his thumb and his forefinger to form a sort of finger chopstick. Then he drops a teeny amount of frosting into his mouth and begins the process all over again. I'm sure that's how the French do it. It's probably in Julia Child's cookbook.

And that was that. A lovely birthday culminated in the watching of my son getting chocolate frosting all over his fingers. My heart was happy. It was many steps above dog poo, even. And you know what would make it even better? No. Not boeuf borguignon. 53 comments, that's what.