Today the baking party begins: (1) tiny tarts filled with dried cherries, figs, or apricots; (2) flourless pecan balls, a prosaic name for a confection that I have never made but that, according to my reading of the recipe, should taste like little crustless pecan pies glazed with lemon.

The holiday menu itself is still in a state of flux. However, the Harmony-raised ham will definitely make an appearance, and I woke up in the middle of the night with an image of lime-meringue pie rising before my eyes. For Christmas Eve I'm toying with the possibility of pierogis followed by tomato soup; but I'm also toying with fish, clam, or corn chowder.

But enough of this menu talk. A random glance at Wordsworth's The Prelude reminds me that "the Spirit of Beauty and enduring Life / Vouchsafe[s] her inspiration, and diffuse[s], / Through meagre lines and colours, and the press / Of self-destroying, transitory things, / Composure, and ennobling Harmony," which I take to mean that I should stop imagining self-destroying, transitory holiday meals and clump outside into the meager snow to feed the rooster who is presently ennobling Harmony by screaming for his breakfast.