Nothing extraordinary, and still worth celebrating

On turning forty-five, listening to what makes me happy, and finding magic in an ordinary summer day.

Jul 30, 2026

45 and I don’t sweat in the heatwave, I sparkle!

I have finally come to terms with a trait of my personality that, for years, I tried to hide because I was a little embarrassed.

I like celebrating my birthday, and I like being celebrated.

I think of it as a special day, one I look forward to with anticipation every year, much as I still look forward to Christmas.

I do not think it is because I am a Leo, or at least, not only because of that. I love growing older: that is something worth celebrating. I like adding a few more lines to my face (though I still wear SPF 50+ every day, come rain or shine), discovering new sides of myself, some of which I have learned to regard with tenderness, learning to soften my edges and choose my battles, and seeing things more clearly, understanding what truly matters and what is simply not worth losing sleep over.

I love the birthday messages and the early-morning phone calls from my father-in-law and Tommaso’s aunt and uncle, who, ever since I became part of the family, have never forgotten an important date.

I love blowing out the candles while everyone sings Happy Birthday, even more so now that I have the very best helper, Livia, who shares my enthusiasm. And I love having a cake to round off the celebrations.

A few days before my birthday, though, I began to feel melancholy. This happens often, too: it is another part of myself that I have learned to accept, and that I now almost welcome with tenderness. I am forty-five, but part of me still expects my birthday to feel magical, as though something good should happen simply because it is my birthday.

But what does something good really mean? Judging by social media, it seems to mean travelling somewhere far away, escaping for a weekend devoted to self-care, or treating yourself to dinner at a special restaurant… But what if, for whatever reason, none of that is possible? Do you simply give up on celebrating?

When I realised that I was the one responsible for creating that magic, I decided to spend a couple of days doing the things that make me happy: small pleasures that could fit even into ordinary summer working days. It felt like the best way to celebrate turning forty-five.

I made a semolina sourdough loaf.

A few days ago, I went to my local bakery to ask for some of their bubbly sourdough starter, and Giuseppe handed it over as he always does, saying, “It is ready to make bread straight away.” My first attempt at baking bread after so many months was so satisfying that Livia, who is usually rather sparing with compliments in the kitchen, hugged me and said, “Mamma, this bread is so good.” And I immediately replied, “I will make you another one. One every week!” (She is almost six, and already knows exactly how to wrap me around her little finger.)

And so, on Monday, my birthday, I made a second loaf. As I write, the delicious smell of freshly baked bread is drifting through the house. After a night in the fridge, the dough was ready to be baked first thing in the morning, before closing up the house and bracing ourselves for yet another heatwave.

The smell of the semolina, the feel of the supple dough beneath my hands, and the thought of that thin, crisp crust and dense, golden, slightly salty crumb brought me back to myself and to the things I love doing.

The pot-roasted rabbit I cooked on Sunday

I cooked myself a simple lunch, but it was exactly what I felt like eating.

It took me a long time, but I have learned to listen to my body. I wanted something light, but full of bold flavours, so I looked at what I had in the fridge and pantry and made Ali Slagle’s silken tofu with crunchy lettuce from NYT Cooking. A few days earlier, though, I had found myself craving the flavours of home, so I made coniglio ad arrosto morto, pot-roasted rabbit, the way my grandmother used to cook it: sage and rosemary, garlic and olive oil, and the smell of family Sundays.

When it comes to food, my tastes are deeply traditional, both in what I cook and what I choose to eat (I have written about this before). And yet there are days when I genuinely crave tofu, soy sauce, or toasted sesame seeds. My diet is mostly vegetarian, but sometimes I feel like eating meat or fish. Sometimes even cheese, as long as it is lactose-free.

I have made peace with this, too. For a while, I imposed so many rules on myself that I had begun to feel constrained, as though I were constantly trying to please someone else. Now, the only person I am trying to please is myself.

Chocolate mousse, though not in my china cups!

And what about the cake?

For dessert that evening, I wanted something festive, but I did not feel like baking myself a cake—I was not in the mood to wash too many bowls, whisks, and dishes—so I went back to Elizabeth David’s chocolate mousse recipe, an old favourite from the blog archive. Instead of using raw eggs, I made it with pasteurised eggs and left it to chill in dainty porcelain cups from my great-uncle’s Chinese tea set.

Quick to make, but undeniably chic, those little mousses felt festive enough, and one of them was just the right size to hold a candle for Livia and me to blow out together.

I went for a walk.

It was not a brisk walk squeezed in between other commitments. I had known since that morning that I wanted to go in the late afternoon, when the sun begins to sink and washes the harvested wheat fields in pale gold, the temperature drops just enough to make being outside pleasant again, and I need to clear my head.

One hour, five kilometres, striding along with purpose as though I were late for an appointment, listening to my favourite music and singing at the top of my lungs along the more secluded stretches, where I was certain no one could see or hear me.

I even came across a few roe deer that had ventured out of the woods, tempted into the open by the cooler, gentler hours of the day, just as I had been.

In the end, nothing extraordinary happened on my birthday, and yet I found a way to celebrate myself by recognising what makes me happy and choosing what felt right for me.

That realisation was certainly one of the loveliest gifts of turning forty-five, along with a drawing from Livia, a new pair of candy-pink flip-flops, a few plants waiting to be repotted, a project for the garden, and time with my family.