I'm late this morning because we're having our first snow day of the season and all of us have been too cheerful about it to slink off into our respective corners . . . except for James, who has yet to emerge from bed. Last night Tom had to drive to Rockport to pick up some photos, and ended up slipping and sliding and otherwise spending a miserable few hours on dark hilly snowy country roads. So he didn't even consider going to work today but is instead going to stay home and help me make rabbit stew.

Before I get to those rabbits, however, I'll need to get to the stack of poetry manuscripts on my desk. I also suspect I'll be overseeing Paul's cookie-baking project and drinking plenty of coffee and possibly playing board games in the middle of the day.

I woke up very early this morning with a title in my head: "Girls and Their Cats and Their Stories." I admit that, as a title, it sounded better in my dream than it does in blunt everyday type. In my dream I had written the opening paragraph of the short story that accompanied this title, a paragraph which began "Not the house that. . . . " Unfortunately my memory has failed to finish the sentence. So feel free to suggest something.

Dinner tonight: rabbit stewed with honey mushrooms, onions, and white wine. Possibly served with polenta. Followed by Christmas cookies.