Prep

I was talking to My Girl Nancy on the phone the other morning -- yes, we talk on the phone; yes it's hugely important to us; yes, we may be the last people on the planet who talk on the phone to eachother -- and I told her we were hosting Thanksgiving and I had to make all my lists and figure out what to do. She said to me, "Dude, you gave me the best advice last year." "What? Me? I did?" "Yes! You said to save all the grocery store and menu lists and save them in a file for next year." "I know, dude; I know. But I can't find it."

I found it.

 I have the best Thanksgiving file.

All the lists, all the menus, all the everything, year after year. It's so good. I am going grocery shopping with no new list this year. Seriously.

 And I save the really good Thanksgiving sections from the years too . . .

 . . . but then I found *this* folder, with really all the best Thanksgiving sections . . . including this year's which features Alison Roman who is my new best friend / slash / girl crush.

I love her. And her cooking inspires me. I am inspired.

In the meantime, everybody, let me pass on the brilliant Thanksgiving hosting advice one of the stories on this table imparts:

Okay, I can't find that. To paraphrase:

When your guests walk in, make sure your house smells like turkey, and be in a good mood / slash / don't complain / slash / fake it with a big smile on your face.

Good advice, right?

Happy Thanksgiving Week, my lovelies.

And a shout out to:

Happy Birthday to our glorious niece and goddaughter Erin. 27!

Happy Birthday to our glorious friend Mr. Slips. 60!

We'll miss you so much this year, Mumsie.

We love you forever, Jimmy.

JP

No, not "Justice of the Peace" . . . although that's what we call our neighbor JP for short . . .

. . . actually Mistah calls him "Chairman of the Board", which is also short for "Justice of the Peace" . . .

. . . No, JP as in he beautiful and glorious Jamaica Plain . . .

. . . where it all started for Mistah and me . . .

. . . back at the beginning of humankind . . .

. . . or at least at the beginning of humankind's statuary . . .

It's a beautiful place and we had beautiful hosts and we miss it already.

We also had the most magical walk through the Arnold Arboretum, but you're going to have to trust camera-less us on that one . . . 

It's a beautiful neighborhood in a beautiful city . . .

. . . and the beer's not half-bad either.

Thanks, guys.

Eleven Eleven

November 11. Today is Eleven Months. On Eleven Eleven.

Not one day goes by when we don't think about James . . .

. . . our New England November is very different from his ever was, that San Diego boy of ours . . .

. . . but as the year anniversary comes crushingly towards us, November on the East Coast *does*  reflect loss so viscerally . . .

. . . and obviously . . .

. . . and poignantly . . .

It's a heavy day, with a lot of loss and sorrow, but of movement forward too.

Thankful for the vets today, thankful for those who do good in this world, thankful we had that kid for the minuscule amount of time we had him.

Big Tree, Down

Okay, it wasn't a big tree, but it was a big limb . . .

. . . See?

No, really, it was big . . .


. . . I had to lumberjack those freshly-chainsawed-logs . . .

into the wheelbarrow . . .

. . . and over to the wood pile . . .

No, this is not Vermont, and no, we do not have an indoor wood-burning stove, but we do love a good Sunday afternoon campfire. I mean, who doesn't?

And in the meantime? On this past glorious weekend?

The last of the zinias . . .

And The Field? Well, the Field is always glorious. And has maybe never been more glorious.

Okay, maybe this day in late summer was was more glorious . . .

. . . but you know what I mean.

The weather was glorious . . .

. . . the sunburst were glorious . . . 

And Bluff Point?

Oh, you know it.

Glorious.