Sunlight peeks through the blinds. It’s 8:27 in the morning and 35 degrees outside. I awoke with my arms wrapped around my partner in life. We whispered “I love yous” in the bed that is just a little too small for us under a comforter made of some noisy synthetic.

My left big toe is stiff and tender but hurts far less than it did when we first got here. I slept in my “Make More Biscuits” tee. The remnants of yesterday’s Thanksgiving prep are visible. A smear of the vanilla pudding here, a dusting of flour there. As if they were battle scars, I’m unreasonably proud of the detritus.

There was laughter in this house last night. There was rhythm. There was wine (though none for me). There was basketball. I wasn’t sure we’d get to this feeling. It had been a tense few days. Family is complicated, but we made it. The map to here might have included escapes to museums and hipster taco joints and edibles and hard conversations and the arrival of cousins with smiles and stories and corny jokes but I’ll take it as it comes.

There will be turkey today. And ham. Macaroni & cheese. Collard greens (two ways) and green beans. Cranberry from a can. Stuffing, of course. Soon, I’ll attempt to make Parker House rolls for the second time this year and only the second time in my life. The first time was a success, but there was a Thanksgiving from my youth in New York where a classic family saying was created.

They didn’t.

So, I’ll be crossing my fingers and checking my recipe twice. I’ll give proper respect to the yeast and remember the lessons of The Great British Bake-off and the Family Cooking Showdown and give my best effort. Even if I fail, though, it’s alright. I’ve got a backup plan.

The shirt says: Make More Biscuits.

I did. The dough is in the back of the fridge waiting to shine.

Just like the sun that rose with me this morning. With us.

Happy Thanksgiving.