The Pandemic Party That Wasn’t
I turned 60 on January 21 without a big fête—though I was secretly waiting for a Zoom or drive-by surprise party at every turn.
Turning 10 — that was 1971, probably the year of the Dumont party with musical chairs in the living room. My mother wore an icy pastel blue polyester skirt and white top. I sulked when I didn’t win the sparkly Goody barrette; it matched my sky-blue dress with pointed white collar. But my friend Denise Essig won it, fair and square.
Twenty is a blur. That might be the wintry day my bestie, Moey, brought a small chocolate Betty Crocker Stir ‘n Frost cake (mix, bake, frost and serve in the cardboard pan, which was included). Irene likely came by, too. That spring, a few months later, my mother would die of cancer.
Thirty? Dan gathered friends and family at Lotsa Pasta, a Montclair bistro we frequented with Moey and Ted. Dad was there, and my pal Fritch. It was 1991; I wore a long gold sweater over leggings with a bright, swirly pattern. Big hair may have been involved.
Forty. Oh, forty. That was the year of the dreamy mocha cake with cascading sugar flowers – a lavish treat Dan ordered from Sweet Sisters – and chilled shrimp…
