Thursday, and my last day at home for a while, which I will spend trying to get too much done in too few hours . . . desk work, house work, wrapping birthday presents, doing laundry, running errands, packing . . . gah. But I'm going to start the day with a walk--almost hoping I don't find any mushrooms along the way so that I don't have to add "deal with mushrooms" to my list. Almost hoping. 

I have zero plans for NYC, other than to spend as much time as possible with my son and our friends. So I don't have to pack books or dress clothes for readings, etc., which will make my hauling-heavy-stuff-up-and-down-subway-stairs life much easier--though it's supposed to rain this weekend, which slops up matters some.

Anyway, for the moment I'm doing nothing much. The house is still warm from last night's good fire. I made split-pea soup for dinner, with garlic bread and a salad of sautéed red peppers and kale. Apple pie for dessert. It was a fine autumn meal, filled with end-of-the-season herbs, my own kale and carrots, gift apples from the neighbors, a ham bone and a baguette from the shop around the corner. Afterward, T and I curled up under a couch blanket and played Yahtzee. The cat sprawled on the hearthrug. We were a cozy scene from a Dickens novel; all we needed was a sudden knock at the door, and who is this mysterious stranger stepping onto our humble stage, wrapped in a black cloak, coated in snow, hat pulled low to shade his face, bearing a weather-stained letter from foreign lands? . . .