Thursday, November 12, 2020

Everyone in this household has been sick with some kind of galloping intestinal bug. I was up half the night but am feeling more or less normal now. Paul was well enough to eat ice cream at midnight, and Tom is currently sipping coffee. So presumably we're all on the mend.

My plan was to make Emily Dickinson's black cake today, and I think I'll be healthy enough to face it. I'd been hemming and hawing about whether I should make cakes this year, but the fan base insisted. Given that I am otherwise completely unprepared for Christmas, baking is probably a good idea. At least I'll have one gift to send.

Otherwise, my time will scuttle along in its usual way: reading Byron, reading Murdoch, editing manuscripts, washing clothes, raking leaves. I'm pleased that my intestines are behaving themselves again. I'm admiring the pale grey sky glimmering through the neighbors' bare maple tree. I'm still hanging on to hope about our democracy.

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