29
On Tuesday I turned 29. Even though I'm nearing the collar pull-inducing age of thirty, I appreciate each birthday as it rolls around. I mean, it's an excuse to live fancy. Your birthday is an extra cream kind of day. Cream and butter melt away any ageing worries you might have. And I'd know, I did a science-based degree at University.
I celebrated my birthday by sincerely and studiously indulging in all of my favourites. I went on two beach strolls, churned ice-cream and had two (count them, two) lattes. See? Fancy. Mum took time off work to be my cooking partner in crime and we spent the day together in the kitchen. She and I both have the same definition of "a good day". Ben was home, too, popping his head out of the study when the rum butter bananas and cake were ready. And in the evening my brother and dad came over for a meal. I was spoilt with books and food and cards so sweet they made me cry.
For lunch we at roasted vegetable salads with hummus and toasted sourdough bread, followed by a slice of rhubarb cake. I baked the cake, introduced to me by my friend Robin, in the morning. Friends, it is a dream. I used wholegrain spelt flour and boy, it was the most perfect birthday cake. Especially with a hefty dose of creme fraiche.
29 feels like a rhubarb age. I like it.
Knowing I had the whole day to spend with my skilled mother in the kitchen, I enlisted her help to try out a beef cheek recipe (link) and these darling ricotta gnocchi (recipe link). Both were outrageously good and shall promptly top our special dinner list, overtaking chicken tagine like it's no dig deal.
My brother joined us for a pre-dinner walk to the beach. I love this time of year and the warm air that promises summer, soon. I think it's going to be a good one.
And then home to eat dinner...
29. It's rhubarb and creme fraiche, it's family and books. It's feeling confident with beef cheek and proud of gnocchi. It's nice.
