A Thanksgiving dinner for two: small prime-rib roast with mushroom gravy (dried morels reconstituted in port, with chanterelles picked on today’s walk); garden potatoes (those underground nests discovered while digging over the finished beds, red-skinned French fingerlings, yellow-fleshed, veined in pink); some of the summer’s horseradish root softened with yoghurt and mayonnaise; salad (kale, late arugula, Chinese greens, picked by John while I made the gravy); and pears baked with coconut sugar and butter, then finished with cream. To drink? A beautiful jammy Desert Hills 2008 Malbec, in the Waterford goblets. Oh, so much to be thankful for. A home, a garden, a family. My work, which has me waking early to bury myself in its strange atmosphere, mysterious and maybe not exactly what the world wants to read, but mine. Mine. The turning of the maples — still green last week but now a deep Naples yellow and ochre. As we ate and talked, John said, raising his glass, “We should say their names.” And we did. Forrest, Manon, and Arthur. Brendan, Cristen, and Kelly. Angelica and Sahand. In candlelight, they were almost present at the old pine table. And certainly present in our thoughts. When they were here in August (though baby Arthur was still as yet unborn), I woke every morning, thinking, “Those I love best on earth are under our roof!” So a last sip of wine and more thanks — for the accumulation of years and for those still to come.