Jane Doe, Alive and Well

Today is my birthday, and I made quite the sacrifice.

Usually my birthday is a mixture of sweetness and sorrow, and to find out why you’ll have the read the article I wrote last year at this time, back when I was a bona fide writer for the North State Voices column in the Enterprise – Record (I copied it below). But, all of you are long-time fans, and you’ve already read that column, right? Right.

So, to put a bit of a balm on what has been, at times, a bit of a confusing day for me, I’ve self-soothed by making it a tradition for my birthday to be my day, a day that I could do whatever I wanted. Usually that means I spend the whole day gardening. One year I spent the entire day scrapbooking. I could do nothing, if I wanted. It’s my day.

It slowly became apparent over the course of this week that this birthday would not follow the tradition, as my son laid out the list of everything he had planned for my birthday celebration - a list that included, interestingly enough, everything that he liked to do. One night as we tackled a post – dinner sink full of dirty dishes, my husband asked what I would like my day to look like, and offered to run a little interference, if needed, with child number one’s commandeering of my day. But strangely enough – and quite surprising to me – I was okay with not having MY day. I realized that I didn’t really want to be gone all day from my little family. A good portion of our day was already spoken for by a little league game, anyway. Maybe I could just go to the farmer’s market by myself, I suggested, and a little gardening in the afternoon.

So my birthday did not look like years past. But that wasn’t the sacrifice.

During the hour or so that I did get by myself – my “little piece of quiet” that every mom needs - I headed to the farmer’s market to buy tomato plants and fresh flowers, with one pretty significant detour. Hey, it was still my birthday, right? I had to treat myself to something special. So, to The Upper Crust I went. And it’s where you should go to, should you be in need of something special of the edible kind. There, or Mim’s, but Mim’s doesn’t serve coffee (which I happened to need this morning) or loose-leaf tea, which was my birthday present to myself.

The line was long as it always is on weekends, but everyone knows it’s worth the wait. The cases were stocked to overflowing, with cakes and plates of pastries spilling out onto the back counters, and still more cakes, freshly frosted, being brought out by the bakers and gently placed in the large refrigerators in the back corner. I knew immediately that Saint Honoratus of Amiens must be smiling on me for my birthday, because I found the absolute perfect treat for me – a raspberry peach scone. Not the incredible caramel oatmeal cake, or the chocolate éclairs, or the fresh butter croissants, but a raspberry peach scone.

And there was one left.

I willed each person in front of me to not order it, and then was content to just let my gaze wander over all the delicious delights.

The little bells on the door tinkled and in walked a family of four, the youngest members being two little girls. They were adorable. They had quite obviously accessorized themselves that morning because the little tiaras and various glittery things did not quite match the more sensible, weather-appropriate clothes mom or dad had put on them. They were out with mom and dad, they were twirling with excitement, they were wide-eyed at all the treats. I couldn’t help but smile at mom and dad, and laugh at the happy girls.
“Oooh, look at all the cookies!” mommy said.
“Cookies!” they said, clapping and jumping.
“And the muffins! Mommy said. “And the scones!”
“Oh! Oh!” cheered the youngest. “Daddy, can I have a scone? Please!”
“Sure, sweetie.” said the smiling, coffee-carrying daddy, kneeling down to put one arm around her. “There’s chocolate, and lemon, and blueberry, and raspberry peach –“
“Oh! Oh!” she breathed, eyes shining. “Raspberry peach! That’s what I want.”
“What are you getting?” she asked older sister, who had been selecting with mommy.
“A blueberry oatmeal muffin.” She said. “What are you getting?”
“A raspberry peach scone.”

Who can resist tiny, twirling, tiara-wearing little girls? Not me. Not even on my birthday.

As I was waiting for my tea, I received a lot of joy from watching her stand on tiptoe to reach the little plate with the last raspberry peach scone and carefully carry it over to the table. Then I went home to my own twirling, jumping with excitement , bright-eyed beauties. It was a great day.

Jane Doe recommends: Anything at Upper Crust. They only make the oatmeal caramel cake on the weekends. If you want raspberry peach scones, I suggest you get there early! If you don’t like the parking situation downtown, then go to Mim’s on Humboldt road, where there’s always plenty of room to park. These places know how to bake, and if you’re going to eat cake, you might as well eat the good stuff!