All Saints It’s just after dawn and she’s taken the mare out, riding through mist, slow-stepping over slippery leaves, then up the slope to that spot on the ridge which signifies clarity. These are the terrible weeks before Thanksgiving with its whirl of details and recipes, those shopping lists, the spot cleaning and airing of best linens. The morning is damp-cold, pinching her cheeks red, bruising her lips with something she’s not ready for: all that food, buttery oranges and greens parceled out on gold-rimmed white china. How she thinks of what she won’t eat at the table, how she’ll urge the family and guests towards seconds and thirds, how she’ll hoard – for later – some of everything in that dark corner of her pantry. Volume 8 No 1 - Page 21

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