Our bustle of young people arrived around 9 last night: young Chuck was ecstatic, the kids were charmed, and Kitten World was a sparkly, happy land.

Now Thanksgiving has dawned, damp and mild, and the house is a palace of quiet breathing, except for a yowly, impatient little cat who is peering under doors and wishing everyone would get up and play with him right now this very second.

Yesterday's baking marathon went swimmingly. The two loaves of white bread baked beautifully. And my gingersnap recipe is so enormous that after stowing a third of the uncooked dough in the freezer I not only had enough cookies for a pie crust and casual eating but was also able to spontaneously snatch up a bagful to share with a pack of 15 or so neighbors who stopped by to see if I wanted to go for a walk with them.

To crown the day, my experimental cranberry mousse pie was a complete success, at least visually. My older son, who will be with his fiancée's family today, is kind of jealous that he didn't get to make this himself. 

Today the Alcott House kitchen will be devoted to savory, but without hurry or panic. I've never understood why so many people eat Thanksgiving dinner in the middle of the afternoon; I much prefer a regular evening meal, and that timing is also much easier on the cook. Our petite turkey won't take long to roast. I'll start the giblet stock this morning and get the collards simmering early, but otherwise we can putter. 

On the kitchen shelf are the bouquets of herbs I harvested yesterday afternoon: thyme, sage, oregano, parsley, everything washed and ready for use. A bowl of local onions sits on the counter. Local potatoes, leeks, and collards lie close at hand. A loaf of fresh bread has been drying all night, in preparation for stuffing. Little Chuck has finally gone to sleep on the couch. Everything looks so beautiful to me. I am thankful.