The kitchen stove managed, with coddling, to hang in long enough to roast a miniature turkey. I carried a plate of turkey and stuffing over to my neighbor, who lives alone, and she gave us a tin of freshly made buckwheat shortbread cookies. The day's biggest football game was canceled because players have Covid. The extended-family Zoom event ensued without serious mishap. We have a pile of leftovers in the refrigerator, very handy for lockdown. And Tom had to wash a lot of dishes. So I guess that's the 2020 version of a successful American Thanksgiving.
Today I'll be phoning the appliance repairman first thing, and dealing with a stack of editing work, and dragging trash to the curb, and trying to figure out why the kitchen floor is so sticky, and catching up on Byron (who is beginning to drive me crazy with his lack of focus), and and and. Tom will be home today, but Paul has to work tonight. I doubt I'll get any of my own writing underway, what with all the comings and goings and bits and pieces and chores and demands, but who knows? What I'd like to do is spend some time outside. After days of rain and heavyweight cooking, I've contracted a severe case of house-bloat.
I think I'll try to make time for my yoga class. And I'll try to sit outside with a notebook. Probably the editing stack can wait till Monday; nobody's going to look at files before then.
It's so easy to wind myself up into a tangle. But, hey, I kept my promise and did not lose my temper over that dicy stove.