Sunday is my birthday. I'll be 26, and that feels old. I don't know.
Last year, to mark my 25th year of existence, Sarah took me out to dinner. We went to the Macaroni Grill, because that bread they give you as an appetizer, IT IS DIVINE. I would go for that alone. But I also wanted a birthday bellini, and Macaroni Grill, for your birthday, gives you this huge piece of chocolate cake covered with hot fudge sauce and toasted pecans (I think) with real whipped cream on the side. It is one of the top two restaurant chocolate cakes ever (also the chocolate souffle cake from CPK). The last time I did the Macaroni Grill thing for my birthday, which was probably five years ago or so, they brought out the cake, very low key, ate it. Yay. (Actually now that I think about it, it couldn't have been five years ago because that's when I turned 21, and I was working for the Astros, and Tom Glavine was pitching against them, which actually became a source of much embarrassment later on, but I am getting way off track.) Back to the Macaroni Grill. Sarah and I are eating, and then, across the room, the waiters start clapping, and singing, in Italian of course, for some guy's birthday on the other side of the restaurant. I immediately realize two things: (1)if I want the cake, I will have to endure the operatic happy birthday, and (2)hey, that guy just stole my thunder! Anyway, we finish our meal and Sarah says, to our server, "Hey, by the way, it's her birthday." And not two minutes later the opera-singing guy is coming over and asking my name. ("You can make something up if you want. Most people do.") I tell him, he sings, I blush. But I get the sweet, sweet reward: my chocolate cake, with a cute little candle in it.
That was actually the day before my birthday, because that was when I was still working for the Redbirds (now 1-11, love it!), and we started a homestand on my birthday. So I had to work. After work, I felt like drinking. Heavily. But I didn't want to go out because mostly the bars in Memphis suck, or the people in them do, so yeah. So, Sarah and I decided to just go watch movies at my apartment, while drinking heavily. (Okay, fine, I'm boring. I don't care.) We commence drinking. She is going to make me a cake, a deep dark chocolate cake with chocolate buttercream frosting, that I absolutely adore. I check my e-mail and look for cheap travel fares out of Memphis while she is in the kitchen. Which means that I am not really paying attention to what she's doing. Set the timer, continue drinking. Timer goes off. Cake's done. Sarah calls me over to look at it, because she's not sure if it's done. I stick a knife in it to test, 'cause I don't have any toothpicks. And it's a white cake. We then have the following conversation:
M: This is a white cake.
S: It is not.
M: Yes, it is. Look at it.
S: But I followed the recipe.
M: The recipe is for deep dark chocolate cake. This is white. Did you forget to add the cocoa?
S: No! I did not forget the cocoa!
M: You did! Hahaha. You forgot the cocoa!
S: No I did not. I opened it just for that.
M: Well maybe you opened it and then forgot to put it in.
S: (grabs recipe book) No, see, here it is, I added it right where it said to...here...3/4...oh. It says 3/4 of a cup. I might have added 3/4 of a teaspoon.
We ate it anyway, and it was good. And then we drank some more, and Sarah started calling random people, which was fine, until she made me talk to the Leffer, at which point she got mad because she likes him but he's an idiot, and he was talking to me instead of demanding to speak to her again, AND THEN, while I was in the bathroom, she went into my phone and found a number she shouldn't have and called Warren, while lying to me and telling me it was the Leffer. Fun times!