Thanksgiving morning. Here in my small northern city by the sea, a cold rain is sluicing from the eaves, pattering against windows, freezing up on sidewalks and streets. Upstairs the boys are deeply asleep. Downstairs the cat and I have curled up in our respective corners, and I'm listening to the clock tick, the furnace grumble. Last night my brain had misty adventures among old piers and seaweed and briny tidepools, and a whiff of dream-salt still clings to me this morning. I wonder what I was doing out there in the mudflats.

Paul and I got a lot of cooking done yesterday . . . before the kitchen stove started acting up. I made a pumpkin tart, simmered and strained giblet and leek stock for gravy, and baked two loaves of whole-wheat bread; Paul made cranberry relish and cut up a white loaf into stuffing cubes. But while I was making dinner, the stove got cranky. I think we can limp through today, but it's possible I may be calling my neighbor to ask, "Um, would you like to roast a turkey?" Another thing to be thankful for: I'm pretty confident she'd say, "Sure!"

It was snowing when I went to the meat market to pick up my turkey. A short line of customers waited in the small shop, all of us masked and carefully separated, but still I felt a holiday cheerfulness: the busy, friendly shopkeepers; the good-humor of the customers, hugging their birds. Even in these dark days, we mustered up a Dickensian glow. And meanwhile a pale snow fell; and when I stepped out of the shop with my little turkey, I lifted my face into the sharp prickle of flake and felt happy.

This will be the tiniest turkey I've ever roasted--just 11 pounds. As long as the stove keeps working, we  should have no trouble getting her done in time for our silly Zoom dinner. Tom is in charge of setting up the webcam in the dining room and arranging the three of us like a sit-com family. James, in Chicago, says he is planning table decorations for his barbecue-chicken Zoom feast. We'll see what my in-laws and sister-in-law's family come up with. The event will be comical and awkward, but everyone is game to make the best of what we have to work with. And if my stove dies, cheese sandwiches and pie will make a fine meal. I hereby declare that I refuse to lose my temper. 

Better days ahead! Happy Thanksgiving to you all!