Fair and balanced.

November, last year. (That fridge is hard evidence that I am, in many ways, becoming my mother.)

It's 10am on Sunday morning. The sun's been shining since 7am when I woke up and sleepily made my way over to the little table by the window where I am now, to write. (I don't want to jinx it, but how fabulous has this November been?) I am trying not to be crushed by a shelf full of Bookish pressure but the fact is that this deadline seems unreachable given the holiday and the surrounding festivities and visits with friends coming up this week (never mind the last three months of poor time management). Still, I'm not quite giving up and plan to put my head down these next few days and hopefully pull something together. The plan for today is to work into the night. (I hate calling writing 'work.' I cling to the term 'work' sometimes because of its validating properties, but I reject it for the same reason. 'Notha entry, 'notha day.)

Dan, husband of the century, just left with three Santa sacks of dirty clothes, sheets and towels and went to the laundromat after my tantrum-y declaration that not only would I not be doing laundry today, but I probably wouldn't be doing it all week. I didn't say the words "So turn your boxer shorts inside out and deal with it," but my tone offered exactly those sentiments. He volunteered to do it and I thanked him while I separated the whites from the delicates. (I'm too much of a control freak to give that part up.) He said, "It's only fair. You always do it." Good answer, Dan. Good answer.

We may try to squeeze in a walk in the sun when Dan gets back (get your Vitamin D while you can, people) but we both have our own projects going on today. Yesterday, Dan and I picked up multiple bags of chocolate chips, tubs of peanut butter, crates of eggs, bars of shortening, cans of evaporated milk, large paper sacks of flower and sugar, and lots of pecans, almonds and walnuts in preparation for a day of baking. This afternoon the apartment will be rich with the smells of Dan's famous brownies, peanut butter balls, (more) fudge, various cookies and banana bread (my contribution if I can get my act together). All Dan's treats are famous. He plays as naturally in a kitchen, as a dancer on a stage. Watching him, it often seems like a choreographed routine of turns and pivots from counters and bowls to the oven and table as he moves from melting a pot of chocolate to the brisk and deliberate stirring of heating fluff and eventually onto a finale of thick, glossy batters being poured into their various receptacles. (His homemade chicken soup and its knee-weakening creaminess is a story for another day.)

Now that he's off and laundering I'm sort of wishing he was here starting his dance, the festive and sometimes melancholy arrangement of Christmas music, his soundtrack. He'll come over to me at my window where I'll still be writing (god-willing) and give me spoonfuls and bites of each still-warm treat. There will be lots of sweet kisses as the hours pass and the sun lowers into night. That will be this year's picture of a Sunday in November. Dan cooking, me writing---I could live a life of Sundays like this.

When Dan woke this morning and saw me at my table he said, "I love seeing you sitting there. It remind me of our dream house where you'll be sitting at a bigger table, at a bigger window with a better view."

Then, noticing how my table rocks due to the sloping hardwood floor he said, "And it will be balanced."

From where I sit, all is in balance today.