when all through the house, baked ribbon pasta with garlic-crisped potatoes over delves of cheese, French beans and mushrooms permeated, and not a single candlelight flickered. The night hung very cold but cozy - taking the mac and cheese out from the aromatic oven - putting immediately in the green apple and comice pear crumble pie to bake - in the woods, winter's chimney is releasing the sweet myrrh and frankincense olfactory in nature's whiffs - and this holiday food and pie cream filled my heart. The kick in the pasta was the added fresh spiciness of the tomato salsa, gathering waves of cheddar-grana padano-ricotta-tuma persa.
The pie's thin crust crumbled to cobbler the filling, broke the rim like peanut brittles and impaled them there, and the stiff foam of whipped cream like a vanilla sundae with nutmeg waited to melt with me. I don't anticipate Thanksgiving next week any better and decadent as this night, 25 degrees bitter cold outside, but warm, such warm comfort and beauty and smell in my stomach cutting lemon juice in the apples and pears and allspice and brown sugar and cinnamon and salt and orange liqueur and milk and charred bread and onion caramels.
Happy Thanksgiving to all, and to all a good night.
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