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.)

Yesterday I thought I’d try something: If nothing interesting happens today, don’t write anything on your stupid website at the end of the day. Nothing happened, soooo…..

Then I thought, does that stop Jimmy Lileks? No! Also, I have a recipe to share. You can stay or you can go. That’s the beauty of the web; I feel no responsibility toward you whatsoever.

This was the most interesting thing about yesterday: I walked the dog. Twice. The first time was at 4:30 a.m., the morning was unseasonably warm, and even Sprig seemed baffled at being invited on walkies at such a ridiculous hour. By necessity, it was a short one. But it was the best part of the day, strolling through the silent world, in balmy air, alone with the streetlights and sidewalks, the only noise the muted jingle of collar and leash. I tried to appreciate what it must be like to be a dog, where most of your information comes through your sense of smell. How interesting to perceive the very air on a plane so rich with data. People say animals are dumb and lack souls. I know better.

Here’s a recipe for sweet potato pie, from the venerable Fannie Farmer, which if you don’t own, you should. Enjoy. P.S. It smells good.

Sweet potato pie

Basic pastry dough for a 9-inch pie shell
2 cups mashed cooked sweet potatoes
2 eggs, well beaten
1-1/4 cups milk
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 t. salt
1/2 t. cinnamon
1/2 t. nutmeg
2 T. rum
4 T. melted butter

Preheat the oven to 425 F. Line a 9-inch pie pan with the pastry dough. Combine the remaining ingredients in a large bowl and beat until smooth and well-blended. Pour into the lined pan. Bake for 10 minutes, then reduce the heat to 300 F and bake for about 50 minutes more or until the filling is firm.

As a person who drinks responsibly, I have something to say to all of you who don’t:

Stop throwing beers at arrogant, overpaid basketball players when they’re being particularly childish and toddler-like. Then we can all have an occasional beer at the ballpark/concert venue, and we won’t have to listen to any of that “because a few of you couldn’t follow the rules, all of you will have to pay” crapola. Jeez, people, is it so hard? You paid money for the beer; hold the beer in your hand so you can continue to sip from the cup. Why waste an arena-priced beer — $8 or so, depending on your geographic area — on some multimillionaire jerk?

It makes so much sense. Maybe this is the sort of conclusion you can arrive at only when you’re relatively sober. Anyway, Uncle Grambo has a pretty good roundup of links on the Pacers/Pistons fiasco, including the remarkably apt description of ESPN bobblehead Stephen A. Smith as a “supreme douchebag,” which was certainly my reaction when I read this from him today:

As I watched footage for the first time, before going live on ESPN, what I saw mainly was a drink tossed in Artest’s face, Artest’s charge into the stands, punches being thrown from all directions, and players fending for themselves. Initially, I felt like I would have done what Artest did. But . . . I did not know that Artest grabbed the wrong fan, that Jackson had elected to go into the crowd and throw haymakers without provocation from any blows being thrown in his direction. I wasn’t aware that an elderly man was seen writhing in pain on the floor, that the son of Pistons forward Darvin Ham was shaken to tears by the incident.

So if, somehow, he had hit the correct fan, that would have made it all OK? Ohhh-kay.

This week’s open Wire thread. Ashley’s already scored a few points, connecting the basketball riot to the ghetto “respect” issue, but y’all carry on. Up for consideration: The wheels are coming off Hamsterdam. You knew it would happen, but when the police start dragging dead bodies around to protect their secret, a line has been crossed. Herc’s right — it’s not something you do. And we want to praise the magnificent Omar (“That woman raised me!”), who, in the end, loves his grandma. All that talk about her crown and the truce and the besmirchment of a true innocent — there’s something you don’t hear on “Law & Order.”

Oh, and Prez. The man who had so much to offer, but a tragic destiny. Sigh.

It figures. On my day off, a day I don’t edit sports, comes the story that probably would have made for a fairly interesting morning.

Nothing like a near-riot at an NBA game to bring out the thumb-suckers, the long-view-takers, the publicity hounds. (Not to mention, God help us all, a few tut-tuts from none other.) I confess: I did not take the Pacers-Pistons fight as a “teachable moment” in my child’s life, as advised by this earnest therapist. Instead, I called my husband into the room while ESPN did the umpty-umpth replay, and we both laughed and hooted while our child looked on, irked that we’d told her SpongeBob would have to be joined in progress later. The flying popcorn! The coldcocked guy in the Pistons jersey! The little boy, a dead ringer for Little Bill, weeping into his mama’s belly! It was just too, too!

Later that night, a fight broke out in one of the raggedy-ass houses behind us. Coincidence? I think not!

It reminded me of Argentina, when we went to a late-season futbol game one night. The stadium was two-thirds empty, which allowed us close observation of the security setup. You want to know why, in movies about coups in banana republics, they always take the political prisoners to the soccer stadium? Maybe because their default fan-protection setup — that is, protection from fans — is so ingenious. The field is surrounded by a moat. Yes, a moat. The cheering sections are caged in chain-link enclosures with barbed wire atop them. The players take the field by traveling through inflatable tunnels that look like giant condoms, the better to protect them from flying projectiles.

Let the deluxe arenas of the NBA institute a little soccer-style security. That’ll drive ticket sales through the roof.

Oh, well — at least now I won’t have to hear any more about Nicollette Sheridan’s damn towel.

Well, it was a fine weekend. As promised, we took Kate and a few of her friends bowling, for the world’s most low-profile birthday party. After the fifth, I’ve been trying to slow down the birthday bullet train, and I think I’ve succeeded, although there’s no way around it — even six well-brought-up children at an no-theme, no-gifts, casual-as-all-get-out gathering are a handful. We had a good time, even though the the ball return broke once and two in our party managed to send their balls into the next lane. Yes, even with the bumpers up. Thank God no one was playing there; I can only imagine the havoc it would have set off in a tournament or league to have a lemon-yellow Tweety Bird bowling ball suddenly land crash! in the middle of your lane and wobble unsteadily down toward your pins. Does the PBA have a rule to cover scoring in such an eventuality? I wonder.

So anyway, in the huge four-base run that is Halloween-Birthdayfest-Thanksgiving-Christmas, we’re now on second base. Halfway home.

Sunday’s breathing space gave me a little time to relax, so I did. We did, that is, heading off to “The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie,” which…does not disappoint, shall we say. I haven’t had as much fun in a movie with Kate since “School of Rock,” and Kate liked this one a lot better. By the time Plankton cried, in despair, “His chops are too righteous!” I was simply giggled out. At the end, all the kids in the theater applauded. I joined in.

The carry-in is a great tradition of the American office — at least in the Midwest. I’m convinced the crock pot is used less to prepare meals for a family than to keep chili or soup or a cheese dip warm from morning coffee break until everyone’s finally sick of it around 1 p.m. or so.

Last month’s apple pie was such a hit at my office we’ve inaugurated a Pie of the Month Club, and tomorrow’s is…anyone? Anyone?

Sure, you’re thinking pumpkin, but noooo. We decided pumpkin is a November cliche, and so tomorrow is…sweet potato pie.

I’m no southerner, and I’ve never made one of these suckers before, but I gotta tell you — if the Nigella fingerfuls of the filling are any indication, this may raise the bar to dizzying heights. This may outscore all the fruit entries. This may be a benchmark.

It’s the Meyer’s Rum that does it. Ooohhh Caleb, you’re in for a treat. At least I think so.

Share your pie thoughts below. No red/blue squabbling. No trolling. It’s Friday. Lighten up.

When Lance Mannion gets going, he doesn’t stop until he’s done. Kind of like Tom Wolfe, only he gets to the point faster and doesn’t irritate you. Me, anyway. Lance on Tom, above. Go read.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll repeat it until my friends start patting me on the head and saying, “That’s nice,” but: The best thing about a 5 a.m. factory whistle is the 1 p.m. quittin’ time. I headed out the door and went directly for La Margarita to meet Alex for lunch. La Marg is Kate’s favorite Mexican joint, so the food is all too familiar, but when I meet Alex there we sit on the bar side, because he smokes.

Indiana has a bizarre two-door policy for restaurants that serve liquor. Children can eat in places with adult beverages, but only if they can’t see the bar. Seriously. They can’t walk past the bar en route to the so-called family room, either. Now that smoking is a factor, most new places make their bar the smoking area, wall it off, and everyone’s happy. Older joints like La Marg have two entrances. Turn left for bright lighting, gaily colored pinatas and high chairs, turn right for dim lights, deeply padded booths and sin. (You can get margaritas on both sides, but you can only watch them being made on the bar side.)

And television. Usually it’s tuned to ESPN, but today, for some reason, it was on a soap. Don’t know which one — whatever’s on CBS at 1 p.m. eastern — but it was on over Alex’s left shoulder, so I couldn’t help but catch a glimpse now and again. I was never a soap fan; the action is too slow, the acting too bad, the setups too preposterous. I don’t mind a little suspension of disbelief, but I have my limits. I’m also too slow-witted to tolerate that favorite soap trick, the Sudden Personality Transplant, in which a character who once acted one way abruptly starts acting another way, usually turning e-vil. Brain tumor? Maybe? Bored writers? Just as likely.

But this soap today — the Hot and the Horny, whatever — cleared up one mystery for me: Oh, look, that’s that pretty actress who played Lt. Fancy’s wife on “NYPD Blue,” the one who had the dodgy pregnancy and the great perm. And I thought about soap freaks I have known, like my late friend Paul, who adored Erica Kane. Once, when we were vacationing in Florida, he’d always take his lunch break from the pool to coincide with “All My Children.” I came in one day to get another beer and found him preparing an elaborate cheese and snack platter, and opening a bottle of champagne. “What’s going on?” I asked, still dazzled from the sun. “Erica’s getting married today, so I’m having a reception,” he said. Not that he ever needed an excuse to open a bottle of anything, but it did make for an amusing hour or so. Her wedding dress was red and sequined. Soaps can afford anything but subtlety.

Alex told his soap-fan story, about the time he got hooked on some serial he can’t even remember now, and it was building, over a period of months, to some big revelation/climax/plot tie-up, and oh but it was so good so good so so good and he was tuned in and the moment of truth was arriving, and then–

“We interrupt this program to bring you this news bulletin. President Reagan has been shot.”

You want to know why people call networks when that happens? You’d be frustrated too if you’d been making out with someone for four months, being led along a bit at a time just forEVER and just when you were going to close the deal, they were called away on an urgent errand.

Anyway, Alex doesn’t watch soaps anymore. I stick to the ones in prime time.

Bloggage:

Congratulations, Judy Blume. I’m too old to have been a fan, but I’m raising one. And you deserve ’em all.

House Republicans proposed changing their rules last night to allow members indicted by state grand juries to remain in a leadership post, a move that would benefit Majority Leader Tom DeLay (R-Tex.) in case he is charged by a Texas grand jury that has indicted three of his political associates, according to GOP leaders.

I’m so proud to be an American.

It’s Kate’s and Alan’s birthday today, and I have a deadline, so no long entry tonight. I regret it, because evidently we’ve got some new visitors around here, thanks to the faraway Indianapolis Star, where we made the sidebar of a story on blogging.

The sidebar! The story of my life!

Just kidding. I appreciate the publicity, and here’s the short version of what you can find here: Daily life, with links. I used to write more about my work (I’m a journalist), but I do that less these days. I have a husband, a daughter and a dog, all of whom make occasional appearances here, although I try to respect everyone’s privacy. Themes: All of them. Politics: Confused, angry and baffled. Attitude: Determined to be amused.

And I’m always making empty promises. Among them: Tomorrow will be better. See you then.