I turned sixty-five three days after Halloween, an occasion I observed quietly at home with my wife and twin daughters. A few weeks earlier, my cousin Pete in nearby Studio City had told me over the phone that turning sixty-five was an important landmark and asked if I was planning a big bash. He offered his spacious house with a swimming pool as the venue. I politely declined.
“To tell you the truth, Pete, I don’t have a sense of self that would make me comfortable having dozens of people travel long distances and bear gifts as if I were some luminary worthy of such a hullabaloo. Accepting presents from people I rarely see strikes me as criminal. I look at the stack of presents and feel as if I’ve participated in some kind of scam. I’m no birthday boy. I’m a grifter who leveraged a ritual to get a burr coffee grinder and a deluxe toaster oven.”
I went on to explain that I wasn’t comfortable celebrating my birthday with what amounted to a Hollywood movie production. I could tolerate a small gesture pointed in my direction. It wouldn’t be a birthday party, per se. It would be more of a birthday hiccup.
Pete laughed and said, “A birthday hiccup? That’s all you want?”
I could tell he wasn’t satisfied with my explanation, so I told him that receiving gifts wasn’t the only thing that made me uncomfortable. Having people visit my house was another source of anxiety.
“Having lots of people over makes me anxious. My house no longer feels like a safe, familiar space. It feels like an open field vulnerable to aerial attacks from pterodactyls. Even after people leave, my house seems war-torn, and it takes several weeks before it feels homey again.”
“But we could have the party at my house,” he said.
“That wouldn’t be fair to you,” I said. “The planning, the invitations, the preparations, the catering costs, the post-party cleanup. Am I worth a few presents? Perhaps. But should you have to perform a month of community service so your cousin can get some free cashmere sweaters and kitchen appliances? Absolutely not.”
So my birthday was a modest affair. It fell on a Wednesday night. My wife got us sandwiches and salads from Mendocino Farms and a carrot cake from Katella Bakery. The carrot cake was one of the best I had ever eaten, unlike any other I had sampled. It was remarkably dense, with thick strands of carrot, and not too sweet. It was topped with cream cheese frosting. Buttercream frosting is bad in general, but on carrot cake, it’s an abomination.
Enjoying the Katella carrot cake, I recalled a scene from the movie Big Night in which one of the characters half-joked that after eating one of his mother’s famous homemade Italian dishes, there was nothing left to do in this world but die. I’ve always appreciated the profundity and truth of that statement. There are indeed certain transcendent pleasures that transport you to a higher world and make returning to the profane planet such a loathsome proposition that you’re better off perishing in your state of bliss.
I was in such a state of bliss. While eating the carrot cake, I fantasized about a new occupation: I would sample seven varieties of carrot cake a day for the rest of my life and become a carrot cake expert. Just as a sommelier specializes in wines, I would become a Carrotelier, a carrot cake specialist with a discerning palate and an air of authority.
The sandwiches and salads were excellent. The carrot cake was transcendent. The post-meal cleanup took ten minutes. There was still time for my post-dinner ritual of making tea for my wife and me and enjoying a TV show. We watched Cupertino, a satirical drama that explores the absurdity of AI and some questionable AI purveyors as artificial intelligence wreaks havoc in Silicon Valley.
I was grateful to my wife for allowing me to celebrate my birthday without sacrificing my cozy ritual. I officially had a birthday party, complete with top-tier carrot cake from Katella Bakery, but I also got to enjoy the comforting routine that makes my evenings so satisfying. Thanks to my wife, I was able to have my cake and eat it too.
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