The day before Thanksgiving and there’s snow. Not just a little dusting, but great fluffy mounds of the stuff. My husband and I lay in bed this morning, listening to the kids thud-running through the downstairs in search of snow clothes. They played outside for a couple hours before coming in for hot chocolate and bagels.
There’s a cheesecake in the oven and cranberry sauce is simmering on the stove. Pastry is chilling in the fridge, and, once the food processor is washed, I’ll make another batch. Tomorrow is all about the pies, and I’ve got time to play.
I’m starting to think of Christmas cookies—what kinds will it be this year?—and am laying the ground work for my first fruitcake ever, making the grocery list and calling the wine shops in search of a Concord grape wine.
It’s not even lunch time yet and the kids are already outside for the second time today. It’s a sweet gift, this quiet house and extra time to write.
But the lights keeps flickering. I’m trying not to panic. A half-baked cheesecake might put a dent in my mood.
I just checked the cranberry sauce. It’s done.
And now I hear the kids’ voices. They’re on the porch, kicking the snow off their boots. I should probably turn my attention to rustling up a lunch. Sandwiches with leftover meatloaf and sweet pickles, I think.