I slept hard last night and am now attempting to come to grips with being upright and awake. Funny how the more sleep I get, the more sleep I want. But, alas. The alarm is inexorable. No wallowing. Get up, get up.

Well, anyway it's Thursday, and I like Thursdays--paycheck day, writing group night--even if this one will feature a trip to the dentist. Once again, the little northern city by the sea will be cool and rainy, but I've got plenty to keep me occupied under cover . . . editing a novel, working on poem drafts, running errands, cleaning the upstairs rooms, listening to afternoon baseball, cooking something or other to carry to the writers' dinner.

Yesterday my Brooklyn son spent most of the day concocting Julia Child's recipe for cassoulet, which he planned to serve at a dinner party he was giving for his [godparents? uncles? beloved unrelated family members who've treasured him since he was a baby and have been entangled with his parents since their own callow youth so why isn't there a name for this relationship? The English language is dumb]. He'd never made cassoulet before, I've never made cassoulet before, so we spent much time on the phone pondering and fretting and cheerleading. I do love that my children dive into cooking. T and I did exactly the same thing at their age: we'd splash headlong into some ridiculous 1960s-era French recipe, and we'd sink or swim . . . quite a bit of sinking, actually, as I was an extremely plain cook and T had never cooked at all as a kid, but our spirits were high.

Today I will no doubt hear all about the travails and/or successes of the dinner party. I look forward to it. How pale life would be without this ongoing boy chatter.