Dear friends, I OWN A WORKING OVEN. Right on schedule, the repair guy appeared, agreed with my diagnosis, produced the part from his truck ("You're lucky! It's my last one!"), undid some screws, attached some wires, redid the screws, and wished me happy Thanksgiving.

True, the furnace guy who was supposed to give us another estimate never appeared (maybe he's hanging out with the bat guy?), but in the present tense I was indifferent. All my hopes were pinned on the oven guy, and he came through like a champ. May his turkey be tender and his football team emerge victorious.

Thus today, after sacrificing a goat or a grilled-cheese sandwich or whatever to the household gods, I will be baking: two loaves of white bread (one for stuffing, one for turkey sandwiches), a batch of gingersnaps, a gingersnap cookie crust, a diced roasted sweet potato (for tomorrow's apple-sweet potato salad), and baked macaroni and sauce (kept warm to feed our hungry late-arriving young people).

Yesterday morning, after getting the housework done, I slogged through the stores for what I hope is my final holiday shopping. Everywhere parking lots were stuffed to overflow, and the turkey line at Pat's Meat Market stretched out the door. But we were all cheerful, and the turkey I ordered is perfect: a petite 12-pounder that when roasted should be almost as moist as a chicken.

My son is eager to serve as my sous-chef, so I don't want to do too much ahead of time and spoil his fun. But I do plan to get the cranberry mousse pie put together today because it needs to set thoroughly before slicing. I am just so pleased to be cooking . . . in my own kitchen, with my own oven, with our dear ones en route. Stop by for a cup of tea, won't you? I'll be around.