Then today. Each year, I reliably spill or drop something, at least once. This year, it was coffee, because of a lid I had not tightened correctly. There may have been a break in cooking while rug cleaner was applied, allowed to dry, and vacuumed. A few expletives were released.
When I make the 3 nut cranberry tart, I toast the nuts. I also burn the nuts 50% of the time. This was one of those years.
I never time the stock. It simmers forever until the meat falls from the bones. The pot is like a good friend, burbling at me all day with pleasantries. I love a pot where you just throw in the duck parts, and the turkey parts, and the vegetable trimmings.
I watch the birds and the squirrels. The cardinals and juncos ruled. It is now early winter.
The cranberry sauce and the tart offer the opportunity to assess the cranberry crop. This was a good year. Rotten ones did not dominate.
By lunchtime, everything in the kitchen looked delicious. Those chocolate truffles? Those chocolate covered espresso beans? No? No. I had egg salad for lunch instead. The mignardises for tomorrow night remain untouched.
My feet hurt. My knees hurt. My back aches. And tomorrow, the rowing challenge begins.
And right on time for the holiday, an ancient Thanksgiving cactus from my mother.