It always makes me a little nervous when workplace birthday festivities come along, because it’s usually the job of the office to distill your personality or your interests into one card or sign or cake or something. You get a card about karate when you quit it six months ago or a banner in the shape of a bottle of wine that just goes to confirm your burgeoning suspicions that you might be coming in hungover to the office a little too often. So when the rouse to call me into the kitchen came last week, I approached with a little trepidation. What did these people think I was all about?
They nailed it. Meat cupcakes for me, Giants ones for the other birthday celebrator in the office. Cats, ostensibly, for the both of us.
Meat cupcakes. Little porterhouses rendered in frosting. Well done.
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