One morning, over toast and tea, about 3 weeks before my birthday, Yvette calmly asks: “You know, we ‘ave to start planning dis spit fight.”

Now, if you’ve ever met Yvette, you know that she is the quintessence of elegance. She possesses the enviable gift of knowing how to pull together an outfit for any occasion in about 15 seconds. Her hair—even on a Sunday morning!— is perfectly chic, as is, no scrunchies or hair clips required. Just a precise bob cut that falls into place like a military salute whenever she swings her head. So you can understand my confusion when this chic creature started talking about—god help us—wanting to plan a spit fight.

She went on. “There’s a lot to prepare. We need a shopping list.”

– “A list?”

– “Yes, I’d rather just make it all ourselves than rely on our friends.”

Well yes, me too. But wait, our friends too??  I took a second look at her toast. Looked normal. Same with her tea.

-“Honey, I’m not sure I understand. You want to host… a spit fight? Here? With our friends?”

“No!” She starts laughing and shaking her head.  “Not a spit fight. Ton… souper… de…fête!”

In my defense, if you say “souper de fête” (birthday dinner) very quickly, and with her Québecois accent, it sounds exactly like “spit fight.”