December 23rd is Tom’s 73rd birthday. Happy birthday, my darling husband. Depending on where you’re standing on the globe, it’s almost his birthday. Back in the US, with the significant time difference, his birthday won’t technically arrive until tomorrow. Here in New Zealand, though, the day has already unfolded, quietly, gently, without fanfare, and that feels oddly fitting this year.
With both of us still recovering from this awful flu, there were never going to be balloons, dinners out, or ambitious plans. No reservations, no cake, no clinking glasses in a crowded restaurant. Instead, the day has been marked in the small, meaningful ways that seem to define this moment of our lives, slow movements, simple comforts, and doing the best we can with the energy we have.
Last night, while seated at the dining table, I chopped and diced mushrooms, olives, and onions for Tom’s favorite dinner: homemade keto pizza. The feel of my big knife against the cutting board felt oddly soothing. Outside, the evening was quiet, the kind of quiet that settles into rural places after dark, when even the birds seem to call it a night early. I worked slowly, pausing often, still not quite back to normal, but determined. This was something I could do for him, even if everything else felt a bit out of reach.
This morning, the kitchen filled with that unmistakable smell of baking cheese as the crusts went into the oven. The cheesy sausages followed soon after, sizzling away, requiring very little attention, mercifully easy on a day when standing too long still feels like a commitment. Soon I’ll slice them and assemble the pizzas, layering the toppings just the way Tom likes them. It’s not fancy, but it’s his favorite, and that feels far more important than any elaborate celebration ever could.
I probably won’t eat pizza myself. It’s simply too fattening for me, and honestly, I don’t mind making something different. There’s a quiet satisfaction in knowing that by skipping it, I’m leaving Tom with more pizza to enjoy, not just tonight, but over Christmas as well. Leftover birthday pizza feels like its own kind of gift, one that keeps on giving long after the actual day.
Yesterday, despite still feeling far from 100%, we made the long drive to the fantastic New World supermarket in Mangawhai. It was one of those necessary outings you brace yourself for when you’re not feeling well, knowing you’ll be glad you did it once it’s over. I did the shopping while Tom took the opportunity to get a much-needed haircut. It felt good to divide and conquer, each of us accomplishing something small but essential.
I took several photos on the drive to the market. The countryside was lush and green, the kind of green that feels almost unreal if you’ve spent enough time in drier places. But on the return drive, the rain came down hard, thick sheets of it, blurring the landscape and limiting my ability to capture much more. Still, the images I did get feel like enough, little visual reminders of a day that was more about practicality than beauty, yet somehow managed to be both.
Tomorrow, we’ll share more details and photos from our trip to Mangawhai. For now, though, today belongs to Tom, 73 years, quietly celebrated, with pizza in the oven, rain on the roof, and the comfort of being exactly where we are, even if we’re still not quite ourselves.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, December 23, 2015:
