Chapter 31
He was awake at five. This was not unusual for Thanksgiving — he had been the one who cooked it for the past seven years, which had begun as a choice and calcified, in the way of things that happen repeatedly, into an arrangement that no longer required discussion. He rose without waking Maryanne, dressed in the dark, and went downstairs to the kitchen where the turkey had been brining since Tuesday night. By seven he had the turkey in the oven and the ham prepped and waiting its turn. By seven thirty he had the stock on for the gravy, the sweet potato casserole assembled and covered, the green beans cleaned and ready for their bacon and shallots, the bread rolls set out to proof in their pan by the warm edge of the stove. He worked through it with the methodical, focused competence he b
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