Today is my 39th birthday, and the day after we returned from a two-week vacation. It feels like an extension of the weekend, especially because friends sneaked into our house yesterday to deposit birthday balloons and flowers.

The morning was partially sunny, full of stiff, dry air. I went for a pedicure and drove Evergreen Parkway in a steady stream of traffic.

In the afternoon, there were thunderstorms, perfect for sunroom reading. I began Madelaine Lucas’s Thirst for Salt. I posted it on Instagram Stories and two people unfollowed me, and while I wish to not be the sort of person who notices these things, it’s a marker of the times.

I had groceries delivered to the house. Instacart kept sending notifications that there were delays. We hoped everything would arrive in time to make our meal.

We had a Mediterranean-inspired family dinner, with artichokes and chickpeas and pita and olives. I can no longer eat nightshades and have found that, apparently, before, I only ever ate tomatoes and peppers.

At seven o’clock, friends came over for ice cream cake and wine. The evening had cooled so much we wore sweatshirts and when the lights flicked off for “Happy Birthday”, the candles lit up the table.