I have some wonderful readers, lemme tell you. They remember birthdays. Thanks for the e-cards, the regular cardboard kind, the sweet e-mails. You can see from the picture what day it was, as well as my every-few-years birthday dessert, pumpkin pie. It was a pleasant day — I believe Peyton Manning may have dedicated the Colts victory to me — and if I spent it cooking, well, I like cooking. I spent last year’s birthday cooking, for the Fellows, and that was a great one too.

Don’t be fooled by the number of candles. I’m only giving my age in Russian from now on. It’s in the headline, if you feel like transliterating and translating.

I got the new Gourmet cookbook for my birthday, which Mary recommends in the comments above, and a double-blade mezzaluna even nicer than Nigella’s. An appropriate cook’s birthday.

Of course we spent the last few days traveling the Great Buckeye Triangle — Fort to Defiance, Defiance to Columbus, Columbus to Fort. We tried to do good deeds — cooked T’giving for Alan’s old ma, upgraded my sister’s iMac to Panther — and had many bestowed upon us, including but not limited to a standing rib roast and a very soft cabernet. The upgrade took far longer than I thought it would — it was an erase-and-reload of the system software, and I wanted, as we so often do in the erase-and-reload phases of our life, to do it right this time. In tribute, however, I will accept the MP3 copy of 50 Cent’s “In Da Club” I found in her music file while I was backing up. Why? Because there’s nothing more pathetic than a woman of sorok syem lyet listening to 50 Cent, that’s why.

Note the wine glass in front of me in that picture, too. This represents my silent protest against my in-laws, who insist that the Thanksgiving meal should be served at lunchtime. I was raised by people who ate at a more civilized hour, but I grant that your mileage may vary. My personal feeling is, if I’m going to eat a zillion-calorie, carb-heavy, tryptophan-laden meal at 1 p.m., then don’t complain when the sound of snoring fills the house at 2:30.

So I always have a glass or two of wine, even if it means I start drinking at noon. It helps me sleep a little deeper.

And then off to Columbus, The Big City That Still, Somehow, Isn’t. J.C., who also grew up there, told me on the phone as we hung up, “I hear they’re making it great.” This is a reference to one of the city’s many misbegotten campaigns to sell itself on the national stage. I still remember the jingle:

Columbus, Columbus, we’re making it great;
Columbus, Columbus the star of the state!
Co-lummm-bus (so much to see in) Co-lummm-bus (so fun to be in)
We’re feelin’ proud, gonna shout it out loud for Co-LUM-BUS…
We’re making it GREAAAAAT!

(I can’t believe I just remembered that whole thing.)

Bloggage: God bless the New York Times. What other newspaper gives you the opportunity to peek over the top of your Sunday Styles section and query your beloved, “Do you think you’d like me better if I got a vaginoplasty?” (Designer laser vaginoplasty, no less.) It gives your beloved the chance to hear your explanation of this madness — plastic surgery on your ya-ya to either make you as snug as a child bride or make it look just like Jenna Jameson’s — consider it carefully and say, “Nah, no complaints.” If you’re lucky, he might then shake his head and say, “You know, I’ve never seen an ugly one.”

I married the right guy.

(And no Wire thread until later in the week. Our power went out at 8:20 last night and didn’t come back until close to midnight. Thwarted, we were. Don’t give anything away until we can catch up.)