But I realized it's the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving Eve. And we have a tradition here at the Handbag, and as frustrated as I am over the state of all things Handbaggery, it's a tradition that will live on, damnit.
Let's just get this right out of the way. I'm thankful for being healthy, for being mentally sound, for being fed, clothed, watered, sheltered.
But there's a lot more to life, no?
Like the quiet of the morning before the world wakes. The sun rising on the water, red in the sky, warm coffee in my hands.
Heavy-crusted bread. Eggs with runny yolks. Thick-cut bacon in a cast-iron skillet.
A roaring fire, a glass of red wine. Tall bookshelves. Bourbon ice cream. Hand-rolled pie dough, bone-rich broth; a steak from the grill, well-seared and tender.
The market in the morning, brimming with baskets of fresh-picked apples, bundles of carrots, pints of potatoes, and bushels of bread.
The market by the sea, lettered signs beckoning: lobsters, clams, oysters, scallops, perch, cod, haddock, hake, all packed on ice, newly pulled from the water.
Words on the page. Words in the air. Words running, hurtling, racing to pin them down before they drift away.
Finding the words you want. Finding the words you need.
The right face in the lens. The whir of the shutter.
Dangling earrings. Fitted dresses. Red pens. Turquoise. Hot apple cider, a mug of mulled wine. Aretha. John, Paul, George and Ringo. Katharine Hepburn. Cary Grant. Patterned skirts. Hand-written letters. Oatmeal stouts, chocolate porters. Albariño. Tempranillo. A fine fiddle player on the radio.
The rolling hills, the green-grass fields. Sweet corn, fresh tomatoes. Driving past the fields with the windows down, classic rock on the radio. Painted barns, sturdy wooden fences. Home.
To recipes, to cookbooks, to grammar rules and stylebooks, to you, to me, to our wide world, to raising a glass to what matters.
Oh, and Derrick.