Yesterday was jam-packed with activity. We were on the road by 6:30, on our stools at Biddeford's Palace Diner by 7, and at the bird sanctuary before 8. It was a cold and quiet morning on the beach and along the salt marshes, the tide at its lowest ebb and the sand stretched before us like a plain. We were all deeply happy to be there. Then mid-morning we headed back to busy Portland--stopped at the grocery store, stopped at the cheese shop--then home again, to immerse ourselves in our ongoing massive Wingspan board game contest. By early afternoon P's college friend had stopped by, Tom was lighting the firepit, and I was prepping a midday grill feast of venison backstrap, halloumi, and hot cider; our neighbor had stopped in to say hello to the kids, and the six of us hung out for a few hours in our coats and hats, nibbling on grilled meat and cheese, warming up with cider, until our visitors dispersed and we four returned to our giant Wingspan game. And then a movie was proposed, so all plus Chuck piled onto the guest bed and were teary over Train Dreams. And then we closed the evening with pizza delivery and Yahtzee, and I, for one, slept like a bear.

This morning the young people will head out for breakfast with their friends, then probably propose yet more Wingspan until bus time. And by early afternoon they will be gone, and T and Chuck and I will feel a little dull for a few hours until we relapse into our regular patterns. It's been such a sweet visit. It could not have been sweeter.

Just a quick note this morning as we are on our way out for an early breakfast and a frosty bird-sanctuary hike. Here's hoping the diner coffee keeps us warm. . . .

7:15, full daylight, and I am only now sitting down to write to you. A Thanksgiving miracle: yes, I actually slept late and had dreams about the skulduggery of Shakespeare professors. But then I also had to scrape ashes and carry wood and light the fire and feed the cat and empty the holiday dishwasher and make coffee, so it took a while before I was at leisure to visit with you.

Still, other than Chuck, I am the only awake-one around here. I'm glad the others are having the pleasure of lolling. They all work so hard and L is still recovering from their illness, and I love knowing they're all dozily gathered under my roof.

Yesterday the kids gave everyone a bird name, and mine was the Dawn Warbler, who wakes before daylight and whose song is an exact replica of the coffee grinder.

Today will be far more aimless than yesterday. The only cooking will involve warming up plates of leftovers, the kids will head into town to hang out with one of P's college friends, and T and I will idle around in a pleasant Sunday-afternoon state of mind. I probably ought to do some planning for my high school class, but maybe not today. After the hard work of holidaying, it feels correct to loll.

Dishes that especially pleased me: The gorgeous jammy texture of the cranberry sauce. Pan gravy with foraged mushrooms--the king of foods. Simmered-all-day Granny-style collard greens, sweet and melting, even without bacon.

Thank you, oven, for your fine and dependable heat. And thank you, bathroom fan, who for some reason decided not to be on the blink. All praise to our plethora of incredible running water, hot and cold, and to working lights and toilets that flush. Thank you, colorful plates and glasses; thank you, loud striped cloth napkins and faded but cheerful tablecloth, everything mismatched but somehow exactly how I like to imagine an ideal world. Thank you, flickering candles and smiling faces; thank you, epic board game competitions punctuated by texts and phone calls from beloveds. Thank you, long walks through the cemetery, long walks by the sea. Thank you, little happy cat.

And so I sit here beside the crackling wood fire, with a Le Carre novel to read and a cup of black coffee to sip, as pale November sunlight slides through the windows, as a clock ticks and a seagull wails. The day awaits.

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.

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.

I would be happy to be sleeping better than I am, but I seem to be caught in one of my insomniac cycles. Oh, well. At least I can keep the fire alive in the wood stove while I'm uselessly ticking off mental to-do lists at 3 a.m.

Yesterday Teresa and I discussed Herbert's Mr. Cogito and geared up for our next big reading project, Tennyson's Idyls of the King. I finished reading Gay Talese's 1964 history of the building of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge between Staten Island and Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, which was more interesting than you might think. I read about a third of Lady Mary Wroth's seventeenth-century "A Crown of Sonnets Dedicated to Love." I scribbled notes about the online class Teresa and I will be teaching in January. I worked on an editing project, and I tried to keep the house warm.

Today will be lumpier. This morning I need to clean for company. This afternoon, supposedly, the oven guy will save Thanksgiving, and a furnace guy will offer us yet another gruesome estimate. Or perhaps they will both be like the bat guy and never show up. I spent much time pondering these things while I was making my insomniac checklist. I also, for some reason, cared a lot about remembering to buy milk.

I cooked cranberries yesterday and simmered a big pot of vegetable stock, so that's two holiday tasks crossed off the list. While the turkey roasts, I'll make giblet broth for gravy, but the vegetable stock will go into the stuffing and the collards, and now I have plenty in store. Our dinner will be fairly traditional, as Paul likes it. The one big experiment is a cranberry mousse pie rather than traditional apple or pumpkin. If the oven really does get repaired on Tuesday, I'll bake plain white bread for stuffing and gingersnaps for the cookie crust. If not, store-bought will have to do. It's always my goal to use as few store-bought items as possible, but I'm not doctrinaire and can roll with whatever, as long as it doesn't involve cranberry sauce from a can or marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes, both of which make me shudder.

Despite our household woes, I'm enjoying myself. I do like a feast.

Today I'll work at my desk, do some housework, talk to Teresa about Zbigniew Herbert, go for a walk, maybe go to the grocery store. Tomorrow will feature the big guests-are-coming cleaning event, plus a repair guy cameo. Wednesday ought to be baking all day.

What could go wrong?