Birthdays

Yesterday was my Mothers 65th birthday. *Random fact* My mother is 30 years older than me and I am 30 years older than my daughter. In all, there is 60 years separating 3 generations of women. I'll turn 35 this year, my daughter, 5. It wasn't planned that way, but it's cool, nonetheless.

We had a nice party for her at my brothers house. He has the happening house now, great location, gorgeous dining room, in ground pool (although too early to use it) the works. I'm glad to see them so happy and settled and the kids thriving and doing so well. Does my heart good.

Anyway, the party turned out nice. The food was fantastic if I do say so myself. Sometimes, I amaze even myself that my food always comes out as good as it does. I made Penne Alla Vodka, a relatively simple dish, but I rocked it up with some nice Proscuitto in the sauce. Also whipped up some Broccoli Rabe and sausage, which for me, is what I could easily live on the rest of my life and never grow tired of it.

I don't mind cooking to help people out. My brother and sister in law are at best, mediocre cooks. The last time we were there for a barbeque, they beat some poor, helpless chicken into submission. I try to give as many helpful hints as I can when they cook, but I don't want to seem butt-in'y, so mostly I just watch and cringe. That chicken was barbequed to within an inch of MY life. Good thing they had lots of soda and beer to swallow it with or I'm not sure I could have choked it down.

Anyway, back on topic, my Mother loved her gifts (got her an Italian cookbook, Giada DiLaurentis' Everyday Italian and my husband happily scanned the book for pictures--lecherous little shit--and an Elvis DVD, right up her alley) loved the dinner, loved her cake, cried some of those Grandma tears when she saw all the homemade cards the kids made her. She deserves it, all of it. She's been a loving and wonderful mother to me and I can't ask for a better "Grammy" for my kids. They adore her. So do I.

So, in a couple months, I'll be turning 35 and a couple months after that, my daughter will turn 5. The 30 year cycle continues and flourishes. Hopefully, I'll have a 65 party someday, and my daughter will cook for me (or not. I've told her she doesn't have to learn to cook. She can do whatever she wants to, although, she's too much like me for me to believe she WON'T cook) and my mother, at the ripe old age of 95, will celebrate with us too.

One can only hope.