I have this thing that I do.

Some people find it annoying; others, fascinating.

People tell me when they were born, I tell them who won Oscars that year.

It's one of my little quirks. And a rather lame party trick, if you ask me.

When I tell someone he's A Man For All Seasons, I mean that he was born in 1966. And then that same person will look at me and ask, "Why the hell do you even know that?"

I just do.

When I was 11 years old, I came down with a very nasty strep infection, which is not typically good subject matter for a food blog, but stay with me here. My tonsils were so swollen that, at one point, I could feel them touch each other at the back of my throat. I couldn't eat or drink without discomfort, nor could I sleep because, every time I swallowed heavily, I would wake up in pain.

Those were good times. No cable television, no computer games to distract me, no talking, no singing of show tunes. Whatever was a pre-Information Age boy to do?

Fortunately, my father came to the rescue. He stopped by the house to see how I was doing and gave me the book that was to set me on a remarkable path of trivia absorption from which I have never strayed: 50 Years of the Oscar: The Official History of the Academy Awards by Robert Osborne.

To both entertain myself and to keep my mind off the pain, I decided to play a little memory game. I wound up memorizing every Best Picture, Actor, Actress, Supporting Actor, Supporting Actress, Director, and Song listed in that damned book. Surprisingly, most of that information has never left this little head of mine.

And so... at some point I just started telling people who won Oscars the year they were born. I think you get the (best) picture. It's sort of like my own version of the zodiac. I'm a 1969 baby, so I see myself as a Midnight Cowboy with Maggie Smith rising. A little bit Goldie Hawn, a little bit Gig Young, but not a trace of John Wayne in me.

Of course, it got a bit boring being stuck with the same film year in, year out, so I started to look at my life in terms of films that won the Oscar for the year that correlated to my age. For example, I deemed my 39th year on this planet as my Gone With The Wind (1939) year because it was so full of melodrama and seemed to go on forever.

As for 40, though I could not afford the upkeep of a deranged housekeeper, I felt as if much of the year, in a sense, was spent coming into my own and out from under shadows of others, not unlike Rebecca's (1940) unnamed heroine.

On Wednesday, I turned 41 and, if I am to continue living my life according to Oscar, I must look to the film How Green Was My Valley to know just what this year will bring. I'm not certain what that's supposed to mean, but I fully expect to get very nostalgic and, perhaps, date a Welshman. I hope it doesn't mean I'm going to have an affair with a minister. Or die in a coal mine.

I am cautiously optimistic. And, for some reason, it has inspired me to bake something:

A Donald Crisp. No, really, it did.

And why a Donald Crisp. Why not bake a Donald Crisp? He won the award for Best Supporting Actor in 1941 as a stern-but-loving father (always Oscar fodder, if you ask me) in, conveniently enough, How Green Was My Valley. The decision to bake him into a dessert follows my own, particular path of logic. I could not have made anything else under the circumstances.

I considered other Oscar winners for that year, but they just didn't inspire cooking. Yes, I could have made a Sergeant Yorkshire pudding, but that seemed ridiculous. And under no circumstances was I about to make anything with the name Suspicion in it. In terms of baking, I firmly believe that anything Joan Fontaine-inspired is to be avoided, since the result will either be weepy or worse, too bitter to eat.

Truth be told, I'm a little disappointed that Barbara Stanwyck didn't win for Balls of Fire. I could have made something really, really interesting.

All this thought about how I am living my live according to the Oscars has really gotten me thinking about my future. For example, I can't wait until I turn 42 so that I might start suffering nobly like Mrs. Miniver. Of course, she had to deal with severe wartime rationing, so I'd better start saving my flour and eggs for next year's birthday recipe.

Until then...

Nectarine Donald Crisp

There is absolutely nothing about this crisp that screams the name Donald. Nor is there anything particularly Welsh about it either, but I wasn't about to put leeks into my dessert. It is what it is, which is good. And easy. Worthy of an Oscar, in my book. Or, at least a nomination.

You decide. Please submit your votes to Price, Waterhouse & Coopers. Thank you.

Serves 4

Ingredients:

For the fruit:

4 firm (but not rock hard) nectarines, pitted and sliced

1 tablespoon of sugar (taste the fruit, if it is sweet, add less. If not sweet enough, add more, got it? Good)

1 teaspoon of grated orange zest

1 tablespoon of Maraschino liqueur or kirschwasser.

For the frangipane:

3 ounces almond paste

3 tablespoons butter, at room temperature

1 1/2 teaspoons sugar

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1 egg

For the topping:

1 cup all-purpose flour

1/2 cup light brown sugar

1/2 white sugar

1 cup slivered almonds

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

8 tablespoons of butter, melted

Preparation:

1. Preheat your oven to 350ºF.

2. Melt butter for the topping and let cool. Add all other topping ingredients and combine well. Place topping in the freezer as you prepare the rest of the ingredients, which will make it nice and clumpy, which is to be desired.

3. To make the frangipane, combine all ingredients until smooth. Set aside.

4. Slice your nectarines and toss in a bowl with sugar, orange zest, and maraschino liqueur. Look at bottle of liqueur. Notice that it roughly the same size as an Oscar. Clutch it to your bosom and practice your acceptance speech when no one is looking.

5. Arrange fruit in a shallow layer along the bottom of a small, oven-proof baking dish. Dot the fruit with spoonsful of frangipane, then top the whole thing with crisp topping, which you have sensibly removed from the freezer. There will be much left over topping, which you will want to have on hand when people command you to make more of this recipe.

6. Place your crisp-filled baking dish on a foil-lined baking sheet because the juices from the fruit will bubble and spill over the edges of your dish. If they don't then you don't have a proper crisp in my book. Bake for about 25 minutes, or until fruit is a-bubble and the topping is browned.

7. Serve warm on its own or with vanilla ice cream. Or eat it cold from the refrigerator for breakfast. It's even better-tasting the next day, though the topping will more than likely not be crisp, which might cause one distress, given the fact that the dish is called a "crisp." Feel free to rename it something else if this is a major concern.

8. Accept applause, but please keep your speech to less than one minute, otherwise the orchestra will try to drown you out and the teenage daughter of a celebrity will walk into your kitchen in a rented evening gown and usher you offstage.

Drizzle your baklava with local honey. Photo of Potrero del Sol community garden's honey by Bill Basquin.

Well, there's no getting around it. My birthday is making its annual appearance in just a few days. Apart of the whole getting-older thing—I now believe that specifying the decade is detail enough, and if you want more you're going to have to wrestle me down and and force-feed me chocolate mousse until you can get into my purse—I'm actually rather fond of birthdays. Cards, new socks, licking icing off the candles, what's not to like? Given that there's only one day of the year when you can get total strangers to be nice to you for no reason, I don't understand those tight-lipped, don't-make-a-fuss types hating on their birthdays every year.

Anyway, they're lying. When my mother turned 70 a few years ago, she insisted that no recognition be given. No cards, no calls, no nothing, no how. I tried to abide, as did her beau, himself a hale and hearty 70-something. Naturally, she called both of us, late in the evening, irate and wanting to know why we'd blown off her birthday. By the time the day rolled around, it seemed, she's changed her mind and wanted the whole deal: phone calls, presents, pink icing roses, telegrams if only they still existed. My feeble little text message wasn't nearly good enough.

This month, of course, is happy birthday Libra month. Now Libras love Libras, so if you're lucky enough to have been born in October, you probably have a whole pile of lucky Libra pals. And there's nothing as much fun as a multi-headed Libra party monster. Take it from me: a party thrown by Libras is a good party: charming company, tasty munchies, lovely cocktails, just enough misbehavior to make the recap entertaining, but not so much that you have to reupholster the couch and buy schnapps for the neighbors. (If you want that sort of party, you wait a week and throw a shindig for the Scorpios.)

OK, so maybe I'm biased, but I'm also experienced, having written the book on this. And if you want to hear more, tune in to Mouthful Sunday night between 7 and 8pm on KRBC 91FM, when I'll be chatting about food, love, and astrology with host Michele Anna Jordan.

So how do you entertain your Libra lovelies? Well, keep in mind that Libras hate to be tied down. We're the sign of the scales, after all, and we like to keep everything in balance, some of this and some of that. We're noshers by nature, tasters who would happily take a forkful off everyone's plate, if we could do it gracefully. So the Libra party is full of little snacklets, tasty bites we can pop in our mouths without having to stop talking.

My dream Libra party menu would be Mediterranean in its drift, with savory little lamb kebabs dunked in herby Greek yogurt, glasses of champagne sparkling with floating pomegranate seeds, grated carrot salad drifted with a chiffonade of mint. And for dessert, a sweet and sticky baklava, not exactly Greek-authentic but absolutely delicious nonetheless. So enjoy, and happy birthday, Libra lovelies!

Birthday Baklava for Libras
Adapted from The Astrology Cookbook: A Cosmic Guide to Feasts of Love

Filling:
2 cups walnuts, blanched almonds, or pistachios, or a mixture of all three, finely chopped
2 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons honey
Pinch of salt
One of the following flavorings: 1 teaspoon grated orange and 1/2 teaspoon ground cardamom; 1 teaspoon cinnamon and a pinch of ground cloves; 1 teaspoon rosewater; 1 teaspoon orange flower water

1/2 pound phyllo, defrosted
1/2 cup butter, melted

Honey syrup:
1/3 cup sugar
1/2 cup honey
1/2 tablespoon lemon juice
1/3 cup water
One of the following flavorings: 1/2 tablespoon grated orange rind; 1 stick cinnamon or 1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon; 1/2 tablespoon rosewater

1. Preheat oven to 325°F. Lightly grease an 8-by-8-inch baking pan. Unfold phyllo dough and trim into 8-by-8-inch squares. Cover sheets with a damp cloth.

2. In a small bowl, mix finely chopped nuts, sugar, honey, salt, and your choice of flavorings. Set aside.

3. Spread a phyllo sheet over the bottom of the baking pan. Using a pastry brush, lightly brush sheet with melted butter. Repeat with 5 more sheets, lightly buttering each sheet before adding the next.

4. Spread approximately 2/3 cup of nut mixture over 6th phyllo sheet. Layer 4 sheets (buttering each one) on top of the nuts. Spread another 2/3 cup of the nut mixture on top sheet, and top with another 4 sheets (buttering between each one). Spread with last 2/3 cup of nut mixture. Top with 6 sheets, buttering each one and finishing with a final layer of butter.

5. Using a sharp knife, make four equal cuts (about 1 1/2 inches apart) through the top layer of pastry. Then make eight equal diagonal cuts (approximately 1 inch apart) across these strips to form 18 diamond shapes. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes, until pastry is crisp and pale golden.

6. While baklava is baking, make the syrup. In a heavy-bottomed pan, heat sugar, honey, lemon juice, and water to boiling. Keep a close eye on it, as the syrup will froth and foam up. Add orange rind, cinnamon stick, or ground cinnamon, if using. Over medium-low heat, simmer for 10 minutes, until syrup has thickened slightly. If using rose water, add now. Remove from heat and pour into a pitcher. Let cool.

7. Pour syrup over hot pastry. (Alternately, let pastry cool to room temperature before cutting. Reheat syrup to almost boiling, then pour hot syrup over cool pastry. See note. ) You may not need all of the syrup. Following the previously made cuts, cut pastry all the way through into diamonds and let syrup soak in for at least 3 hours before serving.

Note: The trick to ensuring a crunchy, sticky pastry is to pour cool syrup over hot pastry, or hot syrup over cool pastry. As long as the pastry and syrup are opposite in temperature when they come together, you won’t end up with soggy baklava.