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.