Another day of family, football, friends and food. With my daughters home from far-flung fields. With family over from midtown and crosstown. With my mother-in-law in from the barefoot wilds of New Jersey. And, of course, Uncle Slappy and Aunt Sylvie, up from Boca.
We made it through the Lucullan meal with a minimum of sturm and drang. There were no battles over drumsticks, or, even, heated discussions over the political chasm that separates Americans as widely today in the mid-21st Century as it did pre-Civil War, 160 years ago.
Even Uncle Slappy who swore he would pour boiling gravy into Grandma Millie's wide Republican lap, behaved like a proper English gentleman. He, unusual for him, had a civil word for all.
The meal was festive. The wine flowed freely, and there was a procession of courses and desserts that reminded me of the Triumphal March from Verdi's Aida.
Now, my wife is in New York's Most Expensive Kitchen, putting away the remainder of the dishes and oversized serving trays we could, in the event of a disaster, use as life-rafts if our ship of state begins to founder.
Sarah is out moving her car and taking a spin class. Hannah is cuddling with Whiskey and reading her third or fourth book of the weekend.
And Uncle Slappy and Aunt Sylvie are drinking their coffee slowly in the dining room like old Viennese before the Anschluss.
I won't say all is well with the world.
That would be too optimistic for me.
But we've made it through another one.
And I wish you all love, joy and peace until the next one.