Thanksgiving weekend. Blinding, soul-cleansing sunshine, frost on the grass in the morning, woodsmoke thick in the air.
Kitchen counters are heavy with squash and gourds and pumpkin and swiss chard and soft, buttery market brioche and all goodness. I bake pumpkin spice cookies with brown butter icing while cranberry sauce simmers on the stove, filling the house with gingery, nutmeggy warmth.
Epic domesticana restores me. The ritual and hospitality of daylong roasting, pastry-rolling, wine and yumminess, indulgence, contentment. Full bellies and unbuttoned pants and tucking in for winter.