Birthdays and small fires

Big Daughter turned 20 yesterday. To celebrate, she suggested that we have lunch at Cafe Habana, 17 Prince Street, at Elizabeth in Nolita, where she recently began working as a hostess. The staff recruited her one evening, as she was having dinner with her best friend, Lady D. Big Daughter's father, the Big N., arrived Thursday from Belgrade, for a month's visit. Being a fan of all things Cuban, he liked the idea of lunch at Cafe Habana. I had flatly refused to join Big Daughter and her friends later that evening at Cafeteria, and he seconded me. We would have been fish out of water. When we met outside Cafe Habana, little one was holding a trio of multicolored balloons for her sister. Earlier in the morning, little one had asked to speak to me privately on the phone. She cried, as she expressed her upset with me, for giving her older sister the birthday gifts without her. We spent Friday together, buying several presents for Big Daughter; flowers, chocolates, a foot massage, sandals, and a gift card from Think coffee, 1 Bleecker street at Bowery. Big Daughter is quite enamored with their iced Spanish lattes, and the gift card will allow her exactly five. Little one had also selected a birthday cake recipe from her special cookbook. After I apologized to her, she regained her good spirits. It helped when her sister said, "now, you can give me another present." I was instructed to buy five chocolate-covered strawberries. The balloons were too big for Cafe Habana, so Big Daughter put them downstairs until we finished eating. The three of them ordered Cuban sandwiches, and I opted to share with little one. In addition, Big Daughter suggested that we get two orders of the Mexican-style grilled corn with chili powder and queso blanco, and an order of molletes, toasted cuban bread with refried black beans and chorizo covered with cheese. Feeling that 20 is a major accomplishment, I ordered a margarita. It arrived in a lemonade glass. I sipped it gently throughout the meal, with no negative side effects. The food was so good, the Big N. felt like he was back in Havana. Cafe Habana is perennially busy and that makes it a lot of fun. It has the rare talent of attracting a mixed crowd of all ages, making for an eclectic, buzzing atmosphere. Speaking of buzzing, I'm starting to wonder about fire gods. I am presently at 2-0 - after nearly burning down the house down a second time - this past Tuesday evening. Both girls have been sick with colds. Big Daughter became sick first, and developed an inexplicable craving for bacon. Somehow, the bacon caught fire in the pan, and flames started shooting out. According to Big Daughter, I started the fire, because I can't tolerate it when she's sick. A faulty premise. Nevertheless, it was pretty embarrassing. After I poured water on the pan, the apartment filled with smoke, and the smoke alarm in the hallway began beeping loudly and insistently. The neighbors mobilized and turned off the alarm. I was too mortified to answer the door. For days, the smell of moldy, wet blankets was in the air. Luckily, Big Daughter received several birthday bouquets of flowers, which perfumed the air with the scent of hyacinths. I am thinking of combustibility. Reverting back to single motherhood-status - with a 20 and 6-year-old - is no easy task. Big Daughter is pretty militaristic in her approach to house maintenance, and little one would like her parents united. These days, I frequently ponder the vast differences between genders, especially with regard to the issues of intimacy, families and child-rearing. The fact that mothers actually expand and contract in the process of creating families, is even more profound than ever to me. As he waited for birthday cake, the Big N. observed that each girl comes with her own father. I noted that each one is truly the apple of her father's eye. As little one and I began baking the birthday cake, the oven was still a little smoky. I had scrubbed out the burned spots, but a few remained. Terrified of triggering smoke alarms, I positioned fans all over the kitchen and opened my bedroom window. Little one anxiously observed some smoke. I reassured her, and it soon abated. Although we planned a pink cake with pink icing and sprinkles, ours ended up a soft orange color with light purple frosting, crowned with sprinkles. It was surprisingly tasty. Young Sir. C., Big Daughter's boyfriend, even had a second helping. He remarked on the pleasing crunchiness of the sprinkles. I had some for breakfast this morning. Carl got the last piece, when he came over to interview a new babysitter for little one this evening.