Christmas morning. Here in the land of twenty-somethings, there is no rising at the crack of dawn . . . except for me and the cat. We are sitting quite happily in front of a blazing wood fire and a shiny tree, resting before the exertions begin again. Yesterday was Tom's feast: homemade ravioli filled with ricotta salata and homegrown chard, grated fennel and carrot salads, and then plates full of the cookies we'd all made over the course of a month. My sister's children have become especially adept at holiday baking (and eating).

Today I am in the kitchen: squash rolls, whole-wheat rolls, Julia Child's casserole-roasted pork loin, Canadian salmon pie, my mother's baked beans, a big salad of beets and brussels sprouts and watermelon radish and almonds, and then cranberry curd tart and Emily D's black cake. We managed to arrange the dining room so that everyone could eat sort of comfortably. I had enough forks. It all worked just as we'd hoped it would.

Last night, after the Vermonters went back to their rental house, Tom and I and our three young people strolled out into the pale flurries and looked at neighborhood Christmas lights and chattered and made comments and laughed over silly things. It was a sweet evening. I'm wishing you one of your own, whether you are quiet or noisy in your celebrations. Merry Christmas. Peace and good will. Some giggling over card games, if that seems appropriate. An unhurried walk into the air. A moon. A few bright stars.