Thanks to weather-report hysteria and the unpleasant image of slick mountainous roads, we've decided to depart early for Vermont and Thanksgiving. I'll be bringing along my cooler full of pie-baking materials, so if we get stuck in a ditch somewhere, we can survive on green tomato mincemeat, apples, dried cranberries, pecans, cognac, maple syrup, and several pounds of butter.

In the interstices of the holiday, I'll be reading Warriors of God: Richard the Lionheart and Saladin in the Third Crusade, because nothing encourages overeating like medieval bloodshed. Tom is reading Joan Didion essays, the poodle is not reading anything, and Paul is reading A Tale of Two Cities, but only because he has to. It's difficult for me to be encouraging because that book is not my favorite version of Dickens. Meanwhile, Ruckus will spend the week in the clink, sharpening shivs, etc.