Nineteen degrees this morning, after snow flurries yesterday. As soon as the snow started, Tom threw up his hands, tossed his tools into the truck, and said Enough. No painting in the snow. But at least much of the barn trim is installed, even if unpainted, and next weekend is forecast to be milder. 

Notice how I am attempting to use the word barn. My neighbor has been hilarious. She is researching more impressive names than shed and has so far come up with bothy as her favorite. My opinion is that, if we keep using shed, it at least needs to be capitalized as a nod to the dignity of the new structure. 

This morning I'll endure my exercise class and then turn my attention to housework before heading north this afternoon. The floors are littered with two days' worth of carpenter detritus, and I don't want to come home to that.

But black cakes are baked and are curing in the fridge. The Bills managed to win a game, probably because I didn't watch it. I am reading a sad story by Alice Munro and am thinking hard about cadence in free verse. I went for a long, fast, windy walk around the cove with my borrow-a-daughter, Lucy. November satisfactions. I hope your skies are bright and your mittens are warm.