batman’s birthday

I will forever enjoy a flourless chocolate torte or espresso dusted tiramisu. I like drinking port, and pairing champagne with a dessert cheese. And I really like salted cookies. But I love, love, love, love birthday parties.

Was there ever a birthday gathering as special as a childhood birthday? Yes, maybe you preferred the cardboard box over the Barbie Airplane that came inside it, and maybe no one else could eat your birthday cake because you pounded it raw with baby fists, but I bet everyone had a blast.

The dance of blue frosting, cookie dough ice cream, and chocolate cake, is one that cannot be beat. Even a Master Chef would fall to the feet of such a flavor combination.  It’s a celebration best enjoyed on a cold, shiny spoon. Possibly paired with the first of many Michelob Ultras and the sounds of your loved ones loved ones exchanging updates and stories. Maybe there’s a pool, where more Michelob Ultras are enjoyed, and those without bathings suits swim in their clothes, blowing raspberries on the belly of the birthday boy.

If you’re lucky, there are birthday cake leftovers. In my days of a higher sugar tolerance, these were enjoyed morning-after-birthday, disguised as a well dressed muffin. In your twenties and when visiting your boyfriend’s family, they’re eaten before a showing of The Grand Budapest Hotel, standing with his mother in the dim light of the kitchen, and biting the frosting off your fingernail.

 

and then he was six foot

Hello friends. It is Thursday, five o’clock somewhere, and the bar flies (though this seems incredibly inappropriate for Santa Monica) of Sonoma Wine Bar are donning their sunglasses while playfully sipping pinot noir.  My little bug, which some of you know as Caroline, is getting her doctor’s appointment at the Volkswagen dealership, and I am stranded along the Pacific coast with nothing but a handful of test assignments and the impending pressure to FIND JOB NOW.  Thankfully, there is FREE WIFI.

20 years ago, I did not think that I would be living in a nearly empty Los Angeles apartment, watching Lilo and Stitch and eating cheap vegan Thai food.  I did not think I would be counting the stars on my back, consistently googling “wine specials” and “free trial,” or relishing in unexpected, long-distance communication. No, I was three-and-half, and a little too preoccupied with the birth of my soon-to-be-sibling.

I don’t remember my reaction when my parents told me I was going to be a sister, but they’ve told me they made it sound as centered around me as possible. “YOU’RE going to be a big sister. YOU get a baby brother/sister. This will be YOUR BABY.”  Up to this point, I had been the only female born into the Kohr family in several generations, and was therefore commanding the attention of every single member of my extended family. My reaction to a new offspring could have been quite sour. Luckily, my parents framed it “just so,” and the arrival of this mystery package fueled my excited like a carton of Pixie Stix.

When Aaron was born, he looked like a beautiful old man. When he was one, he was the cutest child on the planet: big eyes, auburn hair, and he waddled around in a fluffy diaper like a penguin. I was obsessed with him. He was obsessed with me.  We shared a room, the upstairs loft of my parents’ then bachelor pad, and therefore lived the childhood dream in our little playtime nursery.  He only ate white food, had already gotten stitches, and liked trains. His most mischievous moment was kicking me around the kitchen after I had stuffed both legs into one legging-hole, and proceeded to fall onto the tile floor. (My dad has the whole thing on video. I was not helped, rather laughed at.  However, siblings have a special unspoken forgiveness, and I was laughing right along as I slid across the floor.)

When we moved to our new home and into separate rooms, the current residence of my parents and brother, Aaron could stand comfortably under the counter-tops.  On Christmas Eve, we would lean over our former glass coffee table, wearing matching footie pajamas and debating over what to write to Santa. (We are always on our best behavior, duh.)

 As children, we ate white rice and ketchup, microwave popcorn, and Wildberry poptarts.  We sang ‘”Sound of Music” and told jokes on the platform of a brick fireplace, and played GameBoy Color on two-hour road trips to Ammie and Pop-Pop’s.  We’ve since graduated to Unagi and homemade pizza, though on occasion (as per past blog post,) we’ll take a trip down our childhood memory lane and indulge in the artificial flavors of our youth.

One food memory, shouts very loudly when I think of my sweet little brother. I was not in the picture at the time, probably covered in Barbies somewhere, but he was sitting in his high chair, smiling wide for the camera, and clutching a bright green apple. (Note. Green apples have a white interior. Therefore, this food was deemed acceptable by Aaron.)

Mish: *behind the camera, please read in a slightly playful/teasing voice* Don’t you throw that apple…..Dooooon’t you throw that apple!

Aaron: *ADORABLE BABY GRIN* 

Mish: *still teasing* Aaron, you’re gonna be sad if you don’t have your apple.  Don’t you throw that apple!

Aaron: *heaves apple across the room as far as his baby arm can.* 

Pause.  And then..

Aaron: *Look of utter distress* ME APPLE……!!!

To Aaron (whom I know my parents will show this to), HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! And I love you. I don’t have the appropriate equipment to whip up our traditional, shove-in-your-face yellow cake, but tonight, in your honor, I date the green apple.