Cold Sunday dawn, late November. Night sky softens above a tangle of bare maple limbs. In the living room the wood stove creaks as new flames lick at logs and kindling. Young Chuck, stuffed with bed and breakfast, purrs like a saw. He is delighted to be awake, delighted to feel the first warmth seep from the stove, delighted to lean against my shoulder and admire my ear.

Yesterday I pulled out the last of my salad greens and dill. I was still able to harvest a few bunches of late cilantro and parsley, but there won't be much more of either this season. The kale persists, as do the Thanksgiving herbs--sage, thyme, oregano. For the most part, though, the garden has faded into sleep.

We still have no oven, so I'm struggling to imagine baked turkey, rolls, stuffing, pie. Last night for dinner I steamed, then browned a skillet of diced potatoes and leeks. I stir-fried Chinese cabbage and tossed it with strips of leftover venison. I sliced a ripe pear. I'm trying to open my thoughts to similar Thanksgiving contingencies: sautéed squash, chocolate pudding, turkey fricassee, apple salad. Probably the oven really will be repaired on Tuesday, but recent history makes me wary. I am planning ahead for the road block.

Well, the only important thing is that our young people will be arriving on Wednesday night. With our dear ones in the house, the holiday will be a holiday, no matter what we eat and how many blankets we spread on the beds.

So today I hope to go for a long walk. I hope to cook down cranberries for sauce. I hope to fidget with drafts and read Herbert poems and finish a Drabble novel. I hope to clip Chuck's nails while he's sweetly asleep and put together a Portuguese-style kale soup for dinner. For some reason this post has taken me forever to write, though all of my comments are pedestrian. I know you're tired of hearing me talk about heat and food, but so go my days right now.