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Home again, home again. Our dogs are a robust contrast to my parents' dogs; they are a decade apart. House still standing, cats still purring, all is good in the world. Well, all, save my neck, which seems to be greatly pained, perhaps from bending over a secret knitting project, punishment for staying up too late.

We brought the pricey turkey back with us, and tomorrow is Thanksgiving in our home. Butternut squash bisque, cranberry bread--all the things I have half the ingredients for and didn't quite make it for the holiday, along with us and the car (which is still, by the way, in Green Bay, with its pathetic clutch and we arrived in my mother-in-law's car--a kind lending).

Oh, and challah, the next recipe from our Artisan Breads in Five Minutes a Day. I've only had it once, in New York City, at market, and I drool at the memory.

For now, I bend back into little projects, too addicted to completion and lists. That are checked twice. All of that, you know.