Fresh Tart

Yes, even the darling Maven of Mischief has (almost) finally joined us old gals in the Over-40 Club. Yuck, not a club I aspired to join, but there it is, nothing to do but accept it. Still catches me a bit off guard - 40. Yeah. Forty, Kim! Forty and fabulous, you are, my dear! (Especially in her "I'm 40" ring, on her all-important finger, see above.)

We celebrated tonight with a dinner here at the hacienda, Kim, Suz, and me, which is just how Kim wanted it - waaay low key. No surprises, no crowds, no big parties. I set out some brie, pate, and radishes with Hope Creamery butter to nibble on while we had a champagne toast. To 40! To life! L'chaim!

So we sipped and noshed and giggled (and drove John into the other room, ha) while the chicken finished roasting - yes, yet another roasted chicken, I can't stop making the damn things. This time I prettily framed the bird with lots of carrots and potatoes, to soak up all the buttery pan juices and slowly brown and crisp alongside the peep. Worked nicely. To cut all the rich buttery-ness I made a green bean and last-tomatoes-of-the-season salad, seasoned with lots of last-tarragon-of-the-season dressing. Au revoir summer, kiss, kiss.

For dessert I made simple cream puffs and filled them with coffee whipped cream. Add wine, and hot coffee, cheesy 70s tunes on satellite radio (for junior-high slow-dancing, of course), and plenty of pathetic, shriek-worthy beefcake courtesy of God's Gift, and we called 'er a birthday dinner, yes indeed.

And now, g'night to the Birthday Girl! Sleep tight and well! You know, before the hot flashes of menopause set in! Aaaaaaaaaaaaagh...