My father. Although my best friend, who has never met the man who sired me, vehemently believes my dad doesn't actually exist, I am happy to say I have a living, breathing papa, and I think the two of you would get along like gangbusters, Jason. His sense of humor rivals mine in terms of rapier-sharp wit and keen observations about this odd world of ours. Charm oozes from his pores (not in a creepy way), making everyone from the local barista to Bill Gates feel instantly at ease in his presence. My father is intelligent, inquisitive, intense, and probably lots of other words that start with the letter i. One of the traits I value most is the unconditional support he's always offered me. I mean, in high school he drove my best friend and me to a sold out Harry Connick, Jr. concert at the last minute so we could crash the front row and snag an autograph after the show. That's commitment. From baked goods to this blog, he gushes over just about everything I produce, which I know is kind of a job requirement for parents (at least good ones), but it still feels lovely to bask in his neverending enthusiasm. I wonder if outsiders are nauseated by our little mutual admiration society. No bother. Despite our not-so-fabulous traits, like our inability to abide stupid people and our occasional brashness, we know we're pretty darn awesome, and I am positive my dad would gladly bestow society membership on you, Jason, since he knows how much I adore you. If you're lucky we'll even teach you the secret handshake and password to our clubhouse. Happy birthday, dad!
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