Turkey Day.

Thanksgiving dinner at Lyn Paleo's and Doug Faunt's was wonderful, a marvel of a meal accompanied by the perfect side dishes of good friends and good conversation. We all brought dishes based on the theme of Patrick O'Brian's novels. It was, in retrospect, a classic scene: the crackling fire, the fine old house, the heavenly melange of scents, the table set with old silver and sparkling wine glasses, a pair of young kittens frolicking underfoot, and plenty of laughter while we ate golden turkey, mounds of stuffing, sweet potatos, cranberry sauces, green beans and avocado, mashed potatos, savory gravy, and fresh rolls, all washed down with claret cup, negus, white and red wines, and champagne. For dessert we feasted on pies and an enormous trifle. Afterwards, we sat in the living room, or the kitchen, or lingered at the table, and talked in ever-shifting groups. When it was time to go, we wandered down the stairs and stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the stars as our breath made faint puffs of steam in the cold air. On the long drive home, I sleepily realized I was really, truly home at last.

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