It's my Birthday and I won't Bake if I want a Parisian to...

(Ladurée. Heaven on earth.)

Last year I made my own birthday cake. Every year I make my own birthday cake. That's just how I roll. I don't want to be disappointed. And since my mother isn't able to pass through heaven's ether and whip up a glorious Helga confection for me, I'm more than happy to do the pastry work in her stead (and honor).

This year is an exception. My sweet Raymo took me to Paris for the big day, a joyeux anniversaire I am referring to only as "the birthday that shall not be named." Here I am happy to eat a pastry, any pastry, not of my own making. And not just on my birthday. Macaron, Religieuse, Ispahan, L'Opera, and any and all Viennoiseries in sight, I shall manger.

So happy birthday to me and all Pisces babies. I wish for all of us, even those not of the fish zodiac, a life full of gracious living, kindness and Parisian pastries.

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