Over Thanksgiving weekend, my daughter nanny-sat her friend’s goat. The goat is named Bee (short for Belle, I think), and she surprised me by having a silky beard.

We all took a liking to Bee. It was fun to watch her stand on her hind legs and strain to reach the tree branches (though they were bare, so I don’t know why she bothered). She head-butted Jessica, Annabelle (the new sheep finally has a name), and Rameo over her hay. She even wiggled her way through the little door into the chicken coop—I looked out the window just in time to see her behind disappear through the hole, à la a face-first version of the limbo.

Nanny-sitting Bee involved twice-a-day milkings. At six-thirty, morning and evening, my daughter tug-dragged (tug-drug?) Bee up to the barn where they had set up the milking stanchion. She tied Bee’s legs to prevent kickage, and then, while Bee happily munched grain and the cats hovered, she did the milking. She milked straight into a bowl that was sitting in a bucket of snow. Instant chilling, her owners say, produces better milk.

And the milk was delicious, shockingly so. I have vague memories of yellow, putrid-tasting goat milk from some sad moment in my childhood, but Bee’s milk was nothing like that. It tasted almost exactly like cow milk, but even richer.

This same time, years previous: Thanksgiving of 2013, Mom’s new and improved cabbage salad, Friday variety, beef bourguignon, and potatoes in cream with Gruyere.    

This same time, years previous: kale pomegranate salad, monster cookies, red beans, peppermint lip balm, raveled, butternut squash pesto cheesecake, all a-flutter, apple chutney. and a sparkly confession.      

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.

This same time, years previous: a treat, Thanksgiving of 2012, Thanksgiving of 2011, Thanksgiving of 2010, and pumpkin pie.