Tomorrow is my birthday! I will be 33 years old. Wow. I remember when I had a notebook in which I counted all the days until I turned sixteen (I was twelve at the time and thought sixteen would be a magical age–how wrong I was and how many days I had before I found that out!). It’s almost hard to fathom my age or the “fine lines” appearing on my face or the fact that I’ve got kids and a husband and pets to feed. The older I get, the more complicated my feelings about birthdays become.
So why not write about it? And why not drag you along with me?
That’s our writing prompt for today: birthdays. Whatever it means to you, whatever ideas it conjures. At least five minutes. Go.
It’s super easy to find sweet snacks to make for Halloween. Caramel apples, witches’ hats, apples carved and stuffed to look like monsters with big mouths. But if you’re throwing a Halloween party, or if you’ve been asked to bring something to someone else’s, you might want something savory to set on the table. So I present to you: baked bones with blood.
Also known as bread sticks with marinara.
The recipe is simple. Either pick up some pre-made pizza dough from the grocery store (I see it everywhere now, usually in the refrigerator section near the mozzarella cheese and/or pepperoni) or make your own from your favorite pizza dough recipe.
There’s a challenge going around Facebook right now where people post black and white photos of their lives for seven days. The rules: no people, no explanations, and you’re supposed to challenge someone new every day.
Well, no one has challenged me. It’s a lot like being at the Snowflake Dance in seventh grade, which I attended by myself (technically I went with a couple girlfriends but they quickly abandoned me to do the Tootsie Roll in a throng of smelly boys), wearing my green velvet dress and matching Converse All-Stars (always one for a fashion statement), hoping to be asked to dance.
“Are you in New York, Violet?” “No, Max is in New York.”
“You earned a watermelon slice. You’re a bad, bad baby.”
“History, Violet? Hurry, run away Violet!”
“Sam I am…”
“I wanna watch Paw Patrol.” “Not Paw Patrol, Violet. Gaw Gatrol.”
“Violet, you have cookie eyebrows.” “No, I don’t have cookie eyebrows.”
“Violet, you’re a bad baby.” “No. I’m not a bad baby.”
“I’ll be Rubble. You be Chase.” “I’ll be Everest! I’ll be Jake and Rubble and Skye!”
“Violet, you’re stinky.” “No, I’m not stinky! I’m NOOOOOOOTTTTTT!”
I told you brooches were coming back.
THE apple pie. (It takes some confidence to give your recipe a name like that.)
Who says you can’t play with your food?
This apple-glazed pheasant looks AMAZING.
An apple for the teacher.
Beware! Some apples are poison. (Well, some poisonous things are called apples, even if they aren’t apples really, and some things used to be called apples and aren’t really poisonous at all.)
Any bookworm would love to burrow into this apple.
What exactly is the apple of your eye?