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November continued
- kresicki
- Nov 15, 2025
- 70 min read
Updated: Nov 30, 2025
November 16, 2025
Sunday, November 16 – A Soundtrack for the Sky
(Morning Brew & Reflections)
This morning’s coffee and toast came with a soundtrack that felt anything but random. One song after another lined up with my memories and my grief, forever, love, far-away places, one wish, a mother’s lullaby, giving you the best that I've got. My head can explain it as algorithms and playlists, but my heart heard something else entirely: a series of quiet messages stitched together by music, reminding me of the love that still lives on inside me.
It’s 6:41 AM on Sunday, November 16, and I’m getting a later start than usual. I’ve just poured my first cup of coffee and wandered over to the patio doors, still shaking off sleep.
The house feels surprisingly warm. I’d set the thermostat down to 70° for the night, but when I checked it was sitting at 71°, which tells me the temperature outside didn’t drop much. With the door cracked open, cool air drifts in, but it’s not the bitter kind of cold that’s been visiting lately, just enough to remind me that I’m not in July anymore.
Outside, the sky is layered. Along the horizon there’s a faint, pale band of light. Stacked on top of it are dense, darker clouds that gradually soften into more watercolor-like patches above. From past experience, I know this type of sky can go either way very quickly, either it breaks open into something spectacular or it just settles into another gray November morning. For now, it’s holding its cards close.
Today may have to be the day I move the patio furniture down to the storage shed at the back of the property. It’s a yearly ritual I never exactly look forward to, but I do it to squeeze every last possible use out of those chairs and tables. A glance at the glass-topped patio table shows small pools of water gathered there, most likely leftovers from yesterday’s brief rain shower. Nothing the old squeegee and a couple of paper towels can’t handle.
As I move toward the kitchen, yesterday’s bread catches my eye, still sitting on the cooling racks. It might as well be talking to me, urging me to pull out the toaster and a stick of butter for a simple breakfast. The idea of hot toast and another cup of coffee on the deck sounds pretty appealing, almost enough to pull me away from the doorway. Almost.
Then the radio steps in.
A gorgeous rendition of When I Fall in Love by Chris Botti comes on, one of my favorite musicians playing a song that doesn’t just tap on the heart, it walks straight in. It’s in quiet moments like these, when I’m standing where Fran used to stand beside me, that the loneliness and depression find their opening. The first few notes land and I’m reminded, all over again, of how much has changed and how suddenly it all did.
While I’m listening, the sky pulls one of its old tricks. Just seconds before, the clouds had flushed with pink, the color washing across them like someone had spilled watercolor paint. By the time I switch over to my camera settings, most of the pink is already gone, replaced again by gray. That’s how quickly it happens. It has me thinking about setting up a video or time-lapse camera out back so I can capture these fleeting moments to replay on days when the sky is stingy.
I decide to step outside in just a T-shirt, and within seconds I realize I’ve misjudged the temperature. The chill reaches right through the fabric, and I retreat inside for my fleece-lined jacket before heading back out to the deck. Better.
The soundtrack shifts again.
This time it’s Slow and Easy by Eric Essix, another one of my newer favorites on jazz guitar. It’s the perfect companion for what’s happening overhead. The clouds are moving slowly, almost lazily, drifting from north to south-southeast. Hints of pink and lighter gray start filtering in, and the thicker cloud cover begins to thin just a bit. Off to the south there’s a concentrated brightness, like some giant studio light is aimed at the undersides of the clouds, painting their edges. Of course, it’s just the sun working its way up, but it feels more deliberate than that.
I keep telling myself I should go toast that bread, but the sky is changing too quickly. I know if I walk away for even a few minutes, I might miss the best of it. So the toast will have to wait. I stay rooted near the doorway, coffee in hand, watching.
Then Chuck Mangione joins the party with Feels So Good. At this point the whole morning feels like it’s being scored by some unseen DJ who knows my playlist by heart. The clouds begin to open up. Long sweeping brushstrokes of light move across the sky from west to east, and more blue starts to show through.
One side of the sky becomes a clean wash of blue, with wisps of white cloud glowing in gold and pink. The other side stays moodier, stacked with textured blue-gray bands hanging above the silhouette of the trees, especially those two tall, vine-wrapped locust trunks that form what I’ve come to think of as “the portal.”
As the show continues, the clouds march southward and the north clears behind them. The darker gray fades to a milky white, then to a pale blue that slowly deepens. Eventually, the sky explodes into a rich, saturated blue scattered with bright white cloud fragments. Some are stretched thin and feathery, others look like someone tossed handfuls of cotton into the air.
For a while, the sun is partially hidden but I can see it, just barely, centered between the two tall locust trees, right in the heart of the portal. That’s always a special moment, like the day briefly stopping to say hello. I can feel the sun on any exposed skin, even though the air itself is still cool.
The music shifts once more.
Kenny G’s Every Time I Think of You floats quietly through the house, a soft, almost nostalgic undercurrent to the now, brighter morning. The sky above the portal has become a layered composition of white and blue, with a low band of darker cloud still hugging the horizon like a bass line.
Eventually, the sun slides past the portal, continuing its move southward. That’s my cue that the most dramatic part of the light show is coming to a close, even though the sky remains beautiful, just in a gentler way.
And then, as if to write the final line under the morning, Boney James comes on with his rendition of All I Want Is You. After everything else I’ve heard, this feels like the closing credits music to a film I didn’t know I was watching. The sequence of songs—Chris Botti, Eric Essix, Chuck Mangione, Kenny G, and now Boney James—paired with the constantly shifting horizon is almost too perfectly timed. Bizarre, yes. But also strangely comforting.
For a morning that began with uncertainty, a stacked gray sky, a later-than-usual start, the nagging thought about moving patio furniture, it turned into something quietly extraordinary. I never did get to that toast while the show was in full swing, but I don’t regret it. There will be other slices of bread. There won’t be another sunrise exactly like this one.
So I stand there a little longer, jacket zipped, coffee cooling in my hand, listening to Boney James and watching the last bright fragments of cloud drift across the deep blue. The grief is still there. Fran is still gone. None of that changes. But for a couple of hours this morning, the sky, the light, and an almost eerily perfect soundtrack joined forces to keep me company, and for today, that feels like a gift worth noting.
Morning Brew & Reflections
Coffee, Toast, and the Playlist That Wouldn’t Let Go
This morning began the way so many of them do now: quietly, almost gently. I poured myself a cup of coffee, sliced two narrow pieces from yesterday’s loaf of bread, and slipped them into the toaster. The house was still, the sky slowly waking up beyond the patio doors, and Amazon Music was doing its usual job of supplying background sound. Except today, it didn’t feel like background at all.
As I buttered the first slice of toast, “Enter Forever” by Ronnie Laws came on. I barely had time to register the title before the next track arrived: “Don’t Say Goodnight (It’s Time for Love)” by the Isley Brothers. Then, as if the sequence needed a final push, I heard “You Make Me Smile.” Logic tells me it’s just the algorithm doing what it does, pulling songs that match a mood, a genre, a history of what I’ve played before. But my heart heard something else entirely: forever, love, and the fragile possibility of smiling again.
Standing in my warm kitchen, with warm toast in my hand, it didn’t feel random. It felt like a sentence. It felt like a quiet hello from the woman I still miss with every breath.
Just when I thought the morning had said enough, another song slipped into the mix: Rick Braun’s version of “Far Away Places.” My mind went there instantly, to those private inner landscapes I visit so often now, half memory, half imagination. Places where she’s still here, where time is softer, where pain isn’t part of the story. Fantasy, maybe. Far from reality, certainly. But in its own way, deeply comforting. For a few minutes, I let the music carry me there, standing between the sink and the stove, held up by nothing more than coffee, toast, and longing.
Then came “One Wish” by Hiroshima, and that one nearly pushed me over the edge. If I had one wish, I already know exactly what it would be: to have her back here, whole and free of suffering. I know that wish can’t be granted in the way my heart begs for, but the music pulled it out into the open anyway. So I stood there, coffee cooling on the counter, and let the wish exist for a few minutes, raw, impossible, but honest, hovering in the space between what was, what is, and whatever comes next.
A little later, still the same morning, not even nine-thirty yet, I found myself back at the sink, rinsing out the coffee pot and getting it ready for tomorrow’s brew. It was the simplest of chores: empty the grounds, wash the carafe, set everything back in place. And then, as if the day hadn’t already said enough, the music began again.
First came Kenny G’s “A Mother’s Lullaby.” I froze for a moment, hands wet, listening to that soft, tender melody. I couldn’t help but think of her as a young mother, then as a grandmother, rocking babies, soothing cries, offering comfort in a hundred quiet ways that never made headlines but meant everything. It felt, just for a moment, like the song was cradling all of those memories at once.
Before I could recover from that, the next track arrived: Anita Baker’s “Giving You the Best That I’ve Got.” I almost laughed and cried at the same time. If there was ever a phrase that summed up the life we built together, it was that. Two kids. Five grandchildren. Years of doing without, scraping by, saving for “someday.” We didn’t have much, but we gave each other everything we had. She certainly did.
So there I was, just a man at the sink with a coffee pot in his hands, listening to a lullaby for mothers and a love song about giving your best, before the day had even really begun. Maybe it’s all coincidence. Maybe it’s just some faceless playlist doing its work in the background. But standing there in the soft light of a November morning, it felt like more than that: a barrage of small, insistent messages stitched together by music, reminding me of who she was, who we were, and how fiercely we both tried to give the best that we had.
Later in the afternoon, I decided to walk up to a spot not far from my house, maybe a hundred to a hundred and fifty yards away, but just high enough to offer a wide, almost unobstructed view facing southwest. It’s quickly becoming a favorite place for watching the day wind down.
As I headed up the hill, the wind picked up considerably. The three flagpoles at the nearby school were snapping so loudly I could hear them as if they were right beside me, even though they were a good hundred yards away. The thermometer might have said 40°, but with the wind it felt like 29°. You’d think I would have learned my lesson after yesterday’s outing, but once again I went out in just a fleece jacket over a light sweatshirt, a wool cap, and bare hands. My pockets did double duty as hand warmers, and the only time my fingers came out was to take photographs.
The sky itself was already beautiful, bands of golden light spilling out beneath heavy clouds, beams of sun pushing through gaps and reaching down toward the horizon. I stood there, chilled to the bone, waiting and hoping for a little more color. I was almost certain that if I stayed long enough, the reds, oranges, and pinks would make an appearance.
Eventually, the cold won. I started making my way back home, fingers numb and face tingling, and, of course, that’s when the soft pink and rose tones began to roll in, just long enough for me to see them, but not long enough for me to get my camera out of my pocket and grab another shot.
Even so, I’m glad I went. The view was worth it, and the blast of cold air was its own kind of wake-up call. Before I stepped outside, I’d been feeling groggy and sluggish. By the time I got back to the house, I was very much awake, chilled, yes, but refreshed in a way that only a windy November sunset can manage.
Afternoon Notes – Green Tomatoes & Cinnamon Rolls
Earlier this afternoon, when I finally made my way outside, I noticed a couple of bags of green tomatoes still sitting on the deck. I hesitated to open them, assuming the recent frost had probably ruined the lot and that they’d be headed straight to the compost pile. To my surprise, when I opened the bags, about seventy-five percent of the tomatoes were still perfectly usable.
Right then and there, I decided that once the patio and lawn furniture were tucked away for the winter, I’d put those tomatoes to good use and make another batch of green tomato relish.
After finishing the furniture shuffle and heading back into the house, I got to work. I prepped all the vegetables for the relish, salted them, and packed everything into a large container before sliding it into the refrigerator. The recipe calls for letting the mixture sit for six to eight hours so the excess liquid can drain off, but I’m sure an overnight rest won’t hurt a thing. I’ll finish simmering and bottling it tomorrow.
Later, after returning from my cold, windy sunset outing, the thought of a warm cinnamon roll sounded just about perfect. So I moved on to project number two: a double batch of cinnamon roll dough. At first I was a bit concerned about the texture, it seemed drier than usual, and I wondered if I’d shorted the liquid when I doubled the recipe. With a bit of patience and some extra moisture worked in, the dough finally came together to a reasonable consistency.
Into the oven they went, pumpkin-enhanced as they’ve been the last few times, my “new normal” for cinnamon rolls, with a spoonful of pumpkin purée worked into the dough to deepen both texture and flavor. Within fifteen to twenty minutes, the entire house filled with the smell of cinnamon, brown sugar, and pumpkin spice: the kind of aroma that makes you forget your fingers were numb an hour earlier and convinces you that maybe November isn’t so bad after all.
If you look closely you'll probably notice that the tray on the right is missing one cinnamon roll serving. The fact of the matter is, I had to try at least one to make sure everything turned out alright. Indeed it did.
It's been quite the busy day, and now it's time to rest. Not that my thought processes are slowing down any, but this old body certainly is.
November 17, 2025
Waiting on the Light
It’s currently 6:27 AM and the first signs of light are finally showing up along the horizon. Although there’s a band of clouds sitting almost directly on the horizon line, the sky above them looks surprisingly clear, with hardly a cloud in sight.
I’m guessing it will be another 15 to 30 minutes before things start to get interesting. I’ll be waiting at the patio door in quiet anticipation, hoping for yet another spectacular sunrise. We shall see.
The outdoor temperature is 33°, but the “feels like” is 25°. Obviously, I don’t have the door open just yet, but I’m hopeful I’ll be able to do so later. I don’t anticipate going outside this morning, I’ll most likely take any photos from the doorway with the main door and screen door open just long enough to capture the moment.
I’m getting a chill just thinking about it.
I’ll also be watching for Neal this morning so I can give him a few of the cinnamon rolls I made last night, one for his morning sugar rush, and a couple to take home so he and his brother can enjoy them later today.
He usually walks by around 7:25 to 7:30 AM. About a week ago, after sitting out in the cold several mornings waiting for him to pass, I quickly came to the realization that it was getting much too cold to be doing such a thing.
So, I came up with a plan. I have three flood lights' mounted along the ridge line of my roof. I told Neal that if he sees the lights on in the morning, that’s his signal to stop because I have something for him.
Since I really haven’t had anything to share since I came up with that idea, today will be the first real test. I guess we’ll see if he notices the lights and stops by, even if I’m not out on the deck personally greeting him.
By 7:08 AM the clouds from the north have continued their steady slide southward, almost completely obstructing any view of the sunrise. As I watch more closely, they seem to be thickening, moving at a noticeable pace and filling in what little open sky remained. At this point, the possibility of even a remotely spectacular sunrise is quickly fading.
At 7:27 AM, however, there is at least one bright spot to the morning, Neal did, in fact, notice the lights on outside and stopped by. I handed over the cinnamon rolls, still slightly warm, and sent him on his way.
Overhead, the cloud cover continues, though it looks as if it might be trying to break up in a few places. I still don’t have much hope for a memorable sunrise today, but there’s still a little time left for the sky to surprise me.
A Strange, Sleepy Afternoon (With a Small Victory)
It’s now 3:13 PM, and I’m sitting here feeling incredibly guilty because, honestly, I haven’t done much of anything today.
Shortly before noon I did manage to vacuum and clean the bathroom, but that’s about the extent of my productivity. After that small burst of effort, I felt tired and decided to sit in the soft, cushy chair, thinking I might watch the afternoon news. Sitting in the chair, however, was as far as I got.
I drifted in and out of sleep for what felt like hours. I’d wake up now and then, see that some other program was on the television, try to focus on it, and then simply slide back under again. It wasn’t even one of those gray, heavy, overcast days that seem to steal energy. Outside, the weather has actually been quite sunny, with only a few clouds wandering through now and again.
The temperature, though, tells another story. It’s 43°F with a “feels like” of 35°F, and I have absolutely no desire to step outside into that chill. Inside, I’ve got the thermostat set to 74°F, I’m wearing a sweatshirt, and yet I’m still cold. It feels like no matter how warm the room is, there’s a layer of cold I just can’t shake.
The one thing easing my guilt a bit is knowing that I got quite a bit accomplished yesterday. Because of that, I’m not beating myself up quite as hard for moving so slowly today… at least not yet.
What is really starting to unsettle me, though, is something that’s been happening over the past week or so.
Every now and then, while I’m up and moving around, doing dishes, walking through the house, just going about my day, I could swear I hear Fran’s voice calling my name. These aren’t dreams, at least not the way we normally think of dreams. I’m awake, I’m aware of my surroundings… and then there it is. No conversation. No long message. Just her voice, clear as day, saying my name.
And it’s really starting to freak me out.
I find myself pausing, listening, almost expecting to hear it again. Then comes the wave of realization: she’s not here. The silence after I think I’ve heard her is almost louder than the sound itself. It leaves me feeling off-balance, like my brain and my heart are still trying to live in two different worlds at the same time.
On top of all that, there’s the simple, ordinary matter of needing groceries. I really should go to the store. There are a few essentials that I genuinely need to pick up today. The logical part of me knows this, but the motivation just isn’t there. The thought of stepping out into the cold, walking the aisles, dealing with people and decisions and checkout lines feels heavier than it ought to.
At one point, I made a small tactical move, I got up out of the soft, sleep-inducing chair and moved to the dining room table, sitting on a hard wooden ladder-back chair that is about as far from “comfy” as you can get. The idea was simple, if I’m less comfortable, I’ll be less likely to fall asleep again. Maybe I’ll be more inclined to get up, put on my coat, and head to the market before the sun drops and the temperature follows.
A Small Win: The Market and a Simple Dinner
Around 4:00 PM, I finally convinced myself that I needed to go to the market and pick up at least a few essential items. By 4:15, I was actually ready to walk out the door, a minor miracle in itself, when my daughter called.
I told her I was just about to leave, but she insisted on talking for a bit, and I wasn’t about to turn down the chance to hear her voice. So I stayed, we talked, and by the time we wrapped up our conversation, it was about 4:30 PM when I finally made my exit.
I went to the market, picked up what I needed, and, as tends to happen, added a few extra items that were on sale, baking ingredients I know I’ll be using in the not-too-distant future. Then I made my way back home.
By about 5:30–5:45 PM, I had everything put away and decided to make myself a bit of dinner. Nothing elaborate, well, maybe just a little special in its own way.
I wasn’t in the mood to cook anything complicated today, so I settled on a couple of hot dogs. The twist was the green tomato relish I had made a couple of days ago. It’s amazing how much better a simple hot dog tastes with that relish piled on top. Suddenly it’s not just “a couple of hot dogs,” but something flirting with gourmet status… almost, but not quite.
I don’t have any particular plans for the rest of the evening. Since I slept for several hours this afternoon, I suspect I may have a bit of extra energy to burn before I eventually head to bed. Maybe I’ll putter around the house, maybe I’ll just sit quietly and let the day wind down.
In the end, today became a mix of guilt, grief, unexpected sleep, a familiar voice calling my name from somewhere I can’t quite reach, and a small, stubborn victory, I did get to the market, I did what needed to be done, and I treated myself to a simple dinner made just a little better by something I created with my own hands.
I suppose for a “nothing” kind of day, that’s actually something.
November 18, 2025
Tuesday, November 18 — 6:53 AM
I rolled out of bed a little later than usual this morning and shuffled to the patio doors, expecting the same gray sky that’s been hanging around for days. Instead, I walked straight into an explosion of color.
The horizon was on fire, bands of orange and red melting into pinks, purples, and that soft blue that only shows up right before the day fully wakes. It was so beautiful it stopped me in my tracks. As if on cue, Herb Alpert’s “I’ll Remember You” came on the radio and suddenly the whole moment felt stitched together, the music, the sky, the quiet house, me standing there trying to take it all in.
The colors kept shifting so fast that I found myself darting in and out of the house, trying to catch new angles between the two old locust trees. Every time I thought it couldn’t possibly get better, the sky proved me wrong, deepening, brightening, changing.
For a few precious minutes, it felt like the morning was putting on a private show just for me, and I was determined not to miss a single frame.
By 7:11 AM the intensity of the light show had begun to fade. The sky softened into gentler pinks and grays, the brilliant fire at the horizon settling down after its grand performance. It still felt fabulous to behold, especially because I hadn’t expected anything close to this when I first shuffled to the patio doors. I’m simply grateful I got out of bed in time to witness the whole thing from beginning to end.
It looks like the start of a truly good day, and I’m hoping that feeling holds. My friend Bob called last night to see if I wanted to join him and his brother Tim for breakfast this morning. Now that the sun has finished gifting me such a joyous beginning, it’s probably time to move on with the day, get myself ready, take care of a few small tasks, and then head out to meet them, carrying a bit of this sunrise with me.
As I stand here in the doorway with the exterior door open wide and only the screen between me and the outdoors, I can feel the cool air rushing in. It wakes me up in a different way than coffee ever could. I find myself already thinking ahead to later today. After breakfast, I plan to stop at the nearby market and pick up everything I need to make that “Midnight Reverie” chocolate–caramel cheesecake torte I baked a couple of weeks ago, the one everyone raved about.
This time, instead of making one large cheesecake, I’m leaning toward several smaller ones so I can give them to my closest friends and family as a special Thanksgiving treat. With any luck they’ll freeze well, I’ve seen plenty of cheesecakes in the frozen section at the store, so I’m hopeful mine will hold up just as nicely.
4:06 PM – Cheesecakes, World Problems, and Hoagies on Hold
It’s currently 4:06 PM and I’ve just slid three cheesecakes into the oven,
one 9-inch, one 8-inch, and one petite 5-inch. Because they’re all different sizes, I know I’m going to have to keep a close eye on them. They’ll each finish at their own pace, so this won’t be one of those “set the timer and walk away” kind of bakes.
The day started on a much lighter note. I went out to breakfast with my friend Bob and his brother Tim. We must’ve talked for close to two hours while picking away at our breakfasts. It wasn’t anything fancy, but the company more than made up for it.
Just as we were getting ready to leave, Bob made a comment that really cracked me up. He said, “You know, if the world would put the three of us in charge for only a day, we could probably solve most of the world’s problems.” I had to laugh, but given the way things are going worldwide, there’s a tiny part of me that wonders if maybe he’s not entirely wrong.
My daughter had invited me over for dinner, just hoagies, nothing elaborate, and I told her I would call her at four to let her know whether or not I was coming. Standing here now, listening for the subtle signs from the oven and watching the gray drizzle outside, I’m thinking that’s probably not going to happen.
Between babysitting three cheesecakes and the dreary, overcast, rainy day, with temperatures that don’t exactly inspire enthusiasm, I’m not sure I have it in me to venture out anywhere this evening.
For now, it’s me, the quiet house, the hum of the oven, and the hope that all three cheesecakes behave themselves.
After I called my daughter at around 4:11 PM, I explained that I had cheesecakes in the oven and wouldn’t be able to make it to dinner, but I thanked her for the invitation. A little while later, around 4:30 PM, my son-in-law stopped by on his way home from work to pick up the cinnamon rolls I had promised her. Apparently, she was going to have cinnamon rolls tonight whether I was there or not, and I'm certainly glad to hear she appreciates and enjoys what I send to her and her family.
Shortly before he left, I told him that tomorrow I plan on making roast beef sandwiches, some type of potatoes, either mashed or French fries, and fresh green beans for dinner. I let him know that he, my daughter, and my grandson are more than welcome to come if they’d like, as long as he lets me know ahead of time so I’ll know how much to prepare.
Not long after that, the cheesecakes were cooling on the stovetop. Once they had settled a bit, I moved them into the refrigerator to chill overnight. Tomorrow I’ll add the caramel and chocolate ganache, then get them ready either for freezing or for delivery. That part depends on how motivated I am, but I already know there isn’t enough room in my freezer for all of them, so chances are good I’ll deliver some or have my son-in-law pick them up.
I will most likely be rising early tomorrow morning and start the process all over again hoping to make 3 more cheesecakes, so that I have enough to pass to family and friends for Thanksgiving.
That’s about it for the day. It’s been quite busy, but fulfilling nonetheless. I’m thankful that I made it through yet another one. Now it’s time to rest.
November 19, 2025
A Gray Day Kept at Bay
It’s just about 8:00 PM on Wednesday, November 19, 2025, and this is the first real chance I’ve had to sit down and make any mental notes about the day. I was out of bed at around 5:45 AM and, for better or worse, I’ve been fairly busy ever since.
When I first looked outside this morning, the sky was completely gray, solid clouds from horizon to horizon, not even the faintest hint of a sunrise. The whole day followed suit: overcast, cool edging toward cold, a bit windy at times, and the sun never once made an appearance. Maybe that’s part of why I kept myself so busy, with a sky like that, slowing down would’ve just left too much room for thinking.
First thing, I took the cheesecakes out of the refrigerator to see if they had cooled enough for their next step, laying down that caramel veil over the chocolate cheesecake. Of course, shortly after I started, I realized I needed a couple of ingredients I thought I had but didn’t. So, off to the market I went, again.
I’m really beginning to despise going to the store. Truth be told, I’ve probably always disliked it, but these days, with prices being as outrageous as they are, it doesn’t just annoy me, it makes me angry. Walking up and down those aisles, looking at the cost of everything, it just feels ridiculous.
Once I got back home, I finished preparing the caramel sauce and drizzled it over the three cheesecakes, then tucked them back into the refrigerator to cool again before dealing with the chocolate ganache layer.
I had told my son-in-law, daughter, and grandson that they could come for dinner tonight, so from about noon on, my day shifted into preparation mode. Between the cooking, organizing, and general puttering, I managed to keep myself occupied for most of the afternoon.
Around 4:00–4:30 PM, my friend Bob called to say he was going to stop by on his way home from Pittsburgh. When he arrived, we sat and chatted for a while. He had borrowed a couple of tools he needed to remove a stair lift from the home of someone in his church. Since he helped me install the ones in our house, he wanted to look over a few things and ask me some questions, though I’m not sure how much help my memory is on projects like that anymore.
Before he left, I sent him on his way with a small care package, a couple of cinnamon rolls and what remained of the sausage, sage, and vegetable soup I made last weekend. As he was heading out, I asked if he’d need help removing the stair lift, and he said he’d be more than happy to have it. I agreed to meet him at his house at 8:30 AM on Friday so we can head over together and get the job done.
At around 5:00 PM, my daughter and son-in-law arrived for dinner. My grandson didn’t make it until about 6:00 PM because he had to work late. We ate, talked for a bit, and then he headed back out to go somewhere with a friend. My daughter and son-in-law stayed a while longer but left around 7:30 PM, she felt a migraine coming on and wasn’t feeling well.
And that just about sums up my day, busy from early morning until now, with still plenty left that I could do if I chose to. For the moment, though, I think it’s enough just to acknowledge the day, gray skies and all.
Hopefully tomorrow will bring at least a respectable sunrise, but that, as always, remains to be seen.
November 20, 2025
Early Morning Thoughts
It’s 6:28 AM on Thursday, November 20. Out the back patio door, the sky is still completely black. No hint of sunlight yet, no color on the horizon, just darkness. I was hoping for more by now, but at the moment this is all there is, so I’ll keep watching and waiting.
Yesterday I ordered a set of 7-inch springform pans to finish off the cheesecakes. The 8-inch and 9-inch pans feel a bit excessive, considering just how rich, decadent, and sweet this holiday cake really is. One small slice will probably send most people straight into a sugar shock, so an 8- or 9-inch cake is far more than anyone truly needs.
I have three cheesecakes ready for the chocolate layer, which I plan to do this morning. I’ve already prepped the crumb crust for the next three, but I won’t start those until the new pans arrive, supposedly today, though, as always, that’s subject to change. Whether they actually arrive or not remains to be seen.
In the midst of all this baking and planning, I continue to have these extremely difficult moments with grief.
It doesn’t matter what I do, where I go, or who I see, there are always cues that trigger reminders of Fran and send me into a tailspin. Most of the time I can steady myself and ride it out, but not always. I find myself wondering if I will ever truly “get this under control,” whatever that even means.
I know there will always be memories, I don’t want to lose them. But sometimes they haunt me, rising up at the most unexpected and inopportune times, and I don’t think there will ever be any real controlling that, no matter how hard I try.
Nighttime and the very early morning are still the hardest. It’s been that way from the day of her passing and continues to this day. I don’t talk about it often. I try to conceal my emotions and keep them to myself. Once in a while I’ll open up, to my children or a very close friend, but not often, and not in any great detail.
I know the pain and agony of grief far too well, and I sometimes wonder how my children are managing theirs. They don’t say much, if anything, about it, and they worry too much about me as it is. They have their own lives to live, their own families to take care of. The last thing I want is to add another weight to their shoulders, especially when that weight is somehow tied to me, my situation, my emotions, my state of mind on any given day.
So here I sit in the dark, waiting for the first hint of light to show itself, both in the sky and in my heart. I don’t know which will appear first, but I’m still here, watching and waiting.
7:20 AM – The Sky Refuses to Brighten
It’s now 7:20 AM and there are still no signs of light anywhere along the horizon. The sky looks like a heavy blanket of slate gray, with slightly lighter patches of gray scattered here and there, but nothing that even hints at sunrise. It’s making for a thoroughly dismal morning.
About every five or ten minutes I wander back to the patio door, gaze outward, and wait, hoping for some small sign of light, some shift in color, anything. But there’s nothing. Just the same dark, uninviting sky.
A short time ago I received a notice from the weather bureau: a freezing fog warning for this area. Until today, I don’t think I’ve ever heard that term before. I’m not entirely sure of all the specifics, though I can guess the basics and will probably look into it more when I have the time and the inclination, but not right now.
What it does tell me, though, is that the odds of seeing much sunlight today are not good. It looks like I’m in for yet another gray, overcast, and totally unwelcome day of miserable, despicable weather.
In a way, this stubborn, colorless sky feels a lot like the grief I carry. I keep walking back to the window of my own heart, looking for some small break in the clouds, some warm edge of light that says, “You’re going to be okay.” But more often than not, it’s the same heavy gray pressing down, the same cold, quiet fog around everything. I know, somewhere beyond it all, the sun still exists and Fran’s love is still there, but on mornings like this, both feel very far away, hiding behind a sky that refuses to brighten.
Late-Morning Note – Thursday, November 20
It’s pushing 11:30 AM and, weatherwise, the day just keeps sliding downhill. The temperature has dropped instead of rising, there’s a light breeze, and the sky is still a solid blanket of gray. A fine mist hangs in the air, not quite rain, but threatening to get there, and it’s all just downright dismal.
On top of that, the springform pans I ordered still haven’t arrived. I was told they’d be here today, and if they don’t show up before the day is over, I’m going to be more than a little upset. Their absence has already derailed my plans to get a second batch of three cheesecakes mixed, baked, and tucked into the refrigerator to chill.
The good news, the very good news, is that the first batch of three is finished, and they look pretty darn good. For now they’re lined up on the dining room table like proud little soldiers. I may cut into the smallest one later, just to see how the interior looks, and I suspect I won’t mind tasting it either.
A few personal thoughts on today's grieving:
Nothing about how I'm reacting is “wrong” or something I should already have under control.
I built a whole life with Fran. Of course everything has echoes of her, cheesecakes for holidays, the dark quiet just before sunrise, even the way my kids worry about me. Those cues aren’t small, they’re like tripwires, wired straight into my heart. I'm not failing because they still undo me sometimes, I'm grieving because I loved Fran deeply.
A few things I have concerned myself with today:
The hardest times: Nighttime and early morning, when the house is quiet and my mind has room to wander, those are classic “heavy” times for grief I'm told. The fact that they’re still rough doesn’t mean I'm not healing, it just means these are the hours when my guard is down and my love for Fran has space to rise up.
The triggers and “tailspins”: I said I usually can manage the moments, but not always. I'm also told that’s actually very human. Grief isn’t something we command, it’s more like weather that moves through us. I can bring an umbrella, but I can’t stop the rain. Personal research, as well as family, friends, and even physicians, have told me the goal isn’t to control every wave, it’s to survive each one and keep returning to yourself afterward.
My children and their silence: I'm worried about them, and they’re worried about me. Classic loving family stalemate. They may not talk about Fran much because:
They don’t want to “make me worse,” or
They’re trying to handle their grief privately, the way I often do. None of that means they’re not hurting or not remembering. It just means they’re protecting me the same way I'm trying to protect them.
Carrying it alone: I said I don’t talk about it often, that I keep a lot inside. I hear myself as someone who is trying hard to be “the strong one” so my kids don’t have more to worry about me. But I'm also a human being who lost his wife. I'm allowed to lean, not only hold.
Perhaps, some gentle options, not prescriptions, just possibilities:
Name it out loud once in a while. Maybe with my kids, I say something simple like:
“I still have some very rough mornings and nights. I know you worry about me, but I also worry about you. We don’t have to fix each other, we can just say it’s hard sometimes.”I'm not dumping on them, I'm giving everyone permission to be honest.
Give my grief a place to go. I'm already doing this with my writing and my culinary adventures. I might:
Treat each morning writing as my “grief time,” where nothing is off-limits.
Let the cheesecakes, the bread, the holiday prep be offerings for Fran as well as for the living: “This one’s for you too, love.”
Be kinder to the part of me that gets blindsided. Instead of “I should have this under control by now,” maybe:
“Wow, that one hit hard. Of course it did, she was my whole world. ”That subtle shift matters. I'm not broken, I'm bereaved.
Use the sunrise even on the dark mornings. Right now the sky is still black, no hint of light. But I know from long experience, eventually, something will show, a line of orange, a clearing in the clouds, something. I don’t have to feel hopeful to sit and watch. Just being present is enough.
10:42 PM – A Full Day Indoors
It’s currently 10:42 PM, and it’s been quite a busy day.
The new springform pans finally arrived at about 2:45 PM, which meant I was able to get three more cheesecakes made.
They came out of the oven about two hours ago and are now cooling in the refrigerator for the night.
Earlier this afternoon, while I was waiting on the delivery, I needed something to do with my hands. I pulled some vegetables and a bit of chicken breast from the fridge and put together a pot of soup. Once it was simmering quietly on the back burner, I noticed the pans had been dropped off on the porch. that was my cue to restart the cheesecake assembly line.
The new cheesecakes came out wonderfully. I’m especially pleased with the 7-inch pans. The 5-inch pan was really only good for a tasting portion, and the 8 and 9 inch pans were much too large given how decadent and sweet this cake is. The 7 inch size feels just right, enough for at least a dozen people to share one cake and still have a generous slice.
After the cakes came out of the oven, I treated myself to a bowl of the soup along with a couple of pieces of the bread I baked a few days ago. Even though the bread was a bit older, lightly toasting it and adding a little butter brought it right back to life.
I did end up cutting into the smaller cheesecake so I could taste it and make sure everything was turning out the way I had planned. (No complaints from the “quality control” department.)
Tomorrow morning I have to meet my friend Bob to help him with a project. I’m hoping it won’t take more than two or three hours, but I’m planning to bring lunch for him and his wife, some of the soup, some bread, and a few cheesecake samples I cut up this evening, and of course the 8 inch full size cheesecake I promised them, for their Thanksgiving holiday dinner.
All in all, it was a full and eventful day, even if I spent almost all of it indoors. The forecast for tomorrow looks much like today, more gray skies, so I’m not exactly looking forward to the weather. Maybe I’ll get lucky and it will surprise me, but I’m not counting on it.
For now, I’m pretty beat and should try to turn in early. Even though I’m usually an early riser, it always seems harder to get out of bed on the days when I have to set an alarm and be somewhere at a specific time. It almost feels like going back to work, and I’m definitely finished with that part of life.
November 21, 2025
Morning Notes – Friday, November 21
It’s 6:24 AM on Friday, November 21. I rolled out of bed around 6:00 AM, hoping I’d have enough time to do what needs to be done before I head out to help my friend Bob. As I stand here, looking out at a sky that’s nothing but solid gray, my hopes of seeing anything that resembles a sunrise this morning are all but gone.
Somewhere in the middle of all that gray, it hits me that I still haven’t purchased a turkey for Thanksgiving. I have to admit, that was a deliberate move. I don’t have enough room in either of my two refrigerators to store one in a frozen state. I’ll probably pick one up today or tomorrow, giving it just enough time to thaw and be prepped for Thanksgiving next Thursday.
I checked on the cheesecakes this morning and was relieved to see they’d set quite well. They should be ready for the salted caramel layer when I get back home later today.
As I mentioned last evening, I seem to be handling day-to-day activities without much difficulty. But on the days when I know I have to get up because there’s something I need to do, it becomes much harder to rise in the morning. It feels almost like turning the clock back fourteen years and having to get up and go to work again. In retrospect, maybe that wasn’t so bad. The best part back then was that, at the end of the day, I could come home to Fran.
It’s 6:31 AM now and there are still no signs of daylight anywhere. A relatively heavy fog has settled in, and I can only hope it lifts before I have to drive to Bob’s house. For now, I suppose the best thing I can do is gather up what I need to take with me, get it into the car, and remove at least one small task from the list before it’s time to leave.
A low, colorless sky greeted me when I opened the door at 7:26 this Friday morning. A blanket of fog lay over the yard, softening the edges of the trees and turning the locusts into tall, ghostly figures. Visibility can’t be more than a thousand feet at best, beyond that, everything simply dissolves into gray. It’s the kind of morning that swallows sound and makes the world feel very small and very quiet.
In a little while I’ll head over to Bob’s, threading my way through the fog and trying to dodge the worst of the school bus traffic. Where he lives, the fog settles even thicker, so the trip should be… interesting. His Thanksgiving cheesecake is already loaded in the car, along with some excellent Angus beef hot dogs, Fresh rolls, green tomato relish, a large container of soup, and a few cheesecake samples for his wife and him to try. On a morning like this, it feels good knowing the car isn’t just carrying me through the mist, but also a bit of warmth and comfort to share.
It’s currently 5:10 PM and I’ve just finished adding the caramel topping to the three cheesecakes I made yesterday. Today’s caramel venture went much better than on any previous batch. The recipe says to heat sugar and water until it turns a dark amber color. Up until today, I could never quite get it there. I finally discovered the secret: you need to use much higher heat than I was using, and you have to stir constantly. If you do, it will start to turn amber, and it goes from pale to deep amber very quickly. I’m starting to think of it like watching a sunrise, nothing seems to happen for a while, and then in the space of a few moments, everything changes.
This morning I helped my friend Bob, along with a couple of gentlemen from his church, assist an elderly lady who also attends their church. She has to sell her house because of poor health and can no longer keep up with the property. We wrapped up our work around noon, and then Bob and I went back to his house and had lunch with his wife. She’s a lovely lady, and as it turns out, we share a lot of common interests. She’s also a retired teacher and quite an accomplished watercolor artist. Since my major in college was fine art, we have plenty to talk about, often more than Bob cares to hear, because art really isn’t his thing.
On my way home, I stopped at the market and managed to find a turkey for Thanksgiving, along with a few other necessary ingredients. Somewhere between the store and my driveway, I finally noticed how low my gas gauge was, so I stopped to fill the tank. Thankfully, I didn’t run out of gas before I caught it.
Once I got home, I put away the groceries and turned my attention back to dessert duty. I removed yesterday’s three cheesecakes from their springform pans, plated them, and added the caramel topping to all three.
As I mentioned, the process went far more smoothly than it has on any previous attempt. You really do learn something new every day, and with enough practice, things start to get at least somewhere near perfect.
The three cheesecakes are now tucked back into the refrigerator to chill so I can add the chocolate ganache later tonight or tomorrow. Once that’s done, the final three will be finished.
I’m not sure what the rest of the evening will bring, but for now I’m confident I can find some way to keep myself occupied.
November 22, 2025
Coffee, Chuck Mangione, and Another Gray Morning
It’s 7:00 AM on Saturday, and I’ve just shuffled my way into the kitchen. First order of business, pour myself a hot cup of coffee. Second, turn on the radio. Much to my surprise, the first song that comes on is Chuck Mangione’s Rise. I thought to myself, now that’s a great way to start the day, something to get this old body moving and coax my brain into gear.
Feeling a little uplifted, I walked over to the patio door to see what kind of sunrise might be waiting for me, only to find yet another dark, damp, dismal gray sky hanging overhead. What a letdown. From what I’ve heard so far, this is pretty much what we’re in for today, more of the same gray blanket, at least this morning. Obviously not how I like to start my day.
Still, I am vertical. I am moving. I have a hot cup of coffee close at hand. Things could be worse.
On today’s agenda, I’ll be pulling the cheesecakes out of the refrigerator and adding the chocolate ganache glaze. Once that’s done, they’ll go back into the refrigerator to chill and set properly. After that, it’s just a matter of delivery, whether I get to that part today is questionable.
A Little Sun, a Little Warmth
It’s currently 11:19 AM on Saturday, November 22, and the sun has finally decided to make an appearance. According to the local forecast, it’s supposed to be partly sunny for the rest of the day. The outdoor temperature is sitting at 47°, with a “feels like” of 42°. I’ll take it.
If things hold, perhaps a brief walk might be in order later today. We’ll see how the day unfolds and, hopefully, the temperature doesn’t drop too quickly once the sun starts to dip.
I’ve already applied the chocolate ganache to the three remaining cheesecakes, and they’re currently in the refrigerator chilling. Perhaps I’ll snap a picture of them later.
For now, I think I’m going to head to a local cake decorating shop to see if I can find some heavy-duty, foil-lined cardboard boards for presentation purposes. I also need to pick up some extra-wide plastic wrap so I can prep the cheesecakes for freezing until next Wednesday or Thursday.
November 23, 2025
Morning Brew & Reflections
Cheesecakes, Sunlight, and the Weight of the Holidays
It’s a little after 8:00 AM on Sunday, November 23, and I didn’t roll out of bed until about 7:30. Odds are, there was a fairly decent sunrise this morning, and I slept right through it. That nags at me more than I’d like to admit, especially since I haven’t seen a good one in a few days. To think that I probably missed something beautiful while I was still in bed is… irritating, to say the least.
I do have some justification for sleeping in. Yesterday turned into a late-night wrestling match with one of my older computers. I was up until 3:00 AM trying to resolve whatever gremlin is living in there. I’ve got a fairly good idea of where the problem is, but I’m not entirely sure how to fix it. The machine has seen better days, but it’s loaded with a lot of files, so maybe a good cleaning and a bit of organizing will help. For now, it’s just one more project sitting on the mental workbench.
A little while ago, as I peered out the patio door, I could feel the warmth of the sun on my skin. One thing is for certain: it is a genuine pleasure to see the sun again. After several gray, gloomy days, that bit of light instantly lifted my mood. It’s amazing how much difference a little sunshine can make in how the day feels before it’s even properly begun.
There was also a strange little moment of synchronicity this morning. Before I turned on the radio, I realized I was quietly humming a tune to myself without really thinking about it, Boney James and Lalah Hathaway. Then I switched the radio on, and there it was: that exact song playing. Odd, a little eerie, but in a very pleasant way. Those tiny coincidences have a way of making the day feel just a bit more connected.
It’s now about 11:35 AM, and all three cheesecakes are finished and ready to go. The sun has been playing hide and seek all morning, moments of bright sunshine followed by stretches of solid cloud cover. I took a picture of the three cakes lined up on the dining room table, their chocolate tops gleaming and just a hint of caramel peeking out around the edges, like they’re waiting for their assignments.
I’ll probably be leaving here in a little while to deliver a couple of the cheesecakes and then return home to see if I can coax my older computer into performing a bit better than it is currently. So many things are running through my mind right now with the holidays coming up, thinking about all the things I want to do versus all the things I need to do, and realizing I should probably start prioritizing.
What I find unfortunate is that I’m not really looking forward to any of it. It feels like I’m mostly doing it to appease my family and to meet expectations. At the same time, I have to admit that being around other people, even for a little while, will certainly be better than the loneliness I’m finding in this house. Before Fran’s passing, such thoughts never entered my mind. Back then, I actually enjoyed my occasional moments of solitude. They felt like a break. Now, more often than not, the quiet feels heavy instead of peaceful.
Still, the cheesecakes are made, the sun is doing its best to show up between the clouds, and I’m trying to show up too, in whatever way I can manage right now. Maybe that’s all I can ask of myself today.
Evening Reflections – What a Day
It’s 7:42 PM and I just crawled out of my recliner after taking a brief nap, thinking to myself that I should never have sat down in the first place. Now I feel like I’ve got some catching up to do.
Earlier today, after photographing the cheesecakes and getting them ready for packaging, I decided to tackle my older computer. It’s been running incredibly slow, and the printer issues had started up again. I struggled with the problems for an hour or two and finally had to admit I really didn’t know what to do next. I even thought seriously about calling the computer helpdesk, only to find out they’re not operational on Sundays.
Still determined to get things running at least somewhat normally, I went to my new standby for information: ChatGPT. After posing a few questions and explaining the issues I was having, I was blown away by the responses—plural. Step after step kept coming, and, almost miraculously, they actually worked.
By around 5 PM, that 15+ year-old computer was running almost normally again. That’s no small thing when I think back to about a month ago, when I bought a new printer, a new computer, and a new monitor. It took weeks to get the printer working properly with the older machine. I had multiple conversations with the computer manufacturer’s helpdesk, my internet service provider, and did a whole lot of reading and research.
Between the “professionals” on the helpdesk's and the ISP support, we eventually got the printer working, but my home network was a disaster in the process. At one point, they managed to get most of the 26 devices on my network to the point of being almost unusable or completely inoperable. When I finally got things back into some kind of logical order and the new printer talking to the old computer, I was relieved, but it never felt quite right.
A few days ago, things started going south again with the older computer, right when I needed it to finish some work. After today’s interaction with ChatGPT, I had the old machine up and running better than it was last night in about 45 minutes. From this point forward, Chat GPT is going to be my go-to source for tech problems. The fact that it’s available 24/7, 365 days a year, is a pretty big plus.
Once the computer situation was under control, I re-plated all three cheesecakes, wrapped them in plastic wrap, slipped each one into a large zip-top bag, and somehow managed to fit them into the freezer, a real challenge, considering how full it already was. My plan at that point was to deliver a couple of them, but I thought I’d sit down for just a minute to take a break.
That “short break” turned into a couple of hours in the recliner, complete with a nap. So it looks like the delivery schedule has officially been moved to tomorrow.
All in all, it was quite an eventful day, and I’m genuinely grateful I managed to get done what I did. Now that I’ve had a bit of rest, I think I’ll head downstairs, add this to my blog, and then call it a day.
What a day.
November 24, 2025
Morning Brew & Reflections: 6:36 AM
I woke up around 5:30 but didn’t finally drag myself out of bed until about 6:00. I made my way into the kitchen, turned on the coffee, and stepped into yet another day.
From the patio doors I could see the first signs of light. A soft orange glow rested along the horizon, pushing upward into a pale blue that faded into what was left of the night. Two long vapor trails from passing jets cut across the sky, glowing faintly like pink chalk lines. I imagined all the people on those planes, half awake, reading, dozing, fidgeting in their seats, many of them no doubt heading somewhere for the Thanksgiving holiday.
By 6:48, the sky had really started to open up. There weren’t many clouds, but the intensity of the light rising above the horizon was absolutely gorgeous. The warm orange at the bottom melted into blue above, a gradient that made the trees look like dark paper cutouts.
The air was cold, cold enough that, after slipping outside a few times to take pictures, I decided I would spend the rest of the show indoors with the patio door cracked open. I’ll gladly trade a little heat for the chance to hear the world waking up while I watch.
As beautiful as the sky was, it didn’t erase the heaviness I woke up with. Mornings are still brutally hard. I miss sharing my first cup of coffee with Fran. The glow on the horizon so often reminds me of the glow in her eyes when she looked at me in the morning.
There’s amazement in me when I stand here taking in this view, but underneath it there’s still so much anger, so many questions about why this had to happen. I miss her in a way that words will never fully reach.
By 6:54, the sky was a wash of brightness. The colors had softened; day was taking over. The weather forecast says the next couple of days will be cloudy, with rain and possibly snow. Because of that, I feel like I should really soak in every bit of this morning’s clear sky.
It’s strange how much more the weather seems to affect me since Fran’s passing. Sunny days remind me of the days I was lucky enough to spend with her, days filled with light, warmth, and simple routines we took for granted at the time. Gray, overcast days feel like a physical reminder of my grief, as if the sky is carrying the same weight I am.
I can’t help but wonder how long I’ll carry this burden. If I’m honest, probably for the rest of my life. Everyone keeps reminding me that “life is for the living,” and I know they’re right, but living with this kind of emptiness is exhausting.
So I do what I can. I stand at the window, coffee in hand, and I gratefully accept any day that begins with a bit of sunshine. I let the colors of the sky bring whatever small joy they can, hoping that these moments of light, however brief, are enough to help carry me through the darker hours that still follow.
By 7:07 AM, the chill of the morning had started to work its way into me. I found myself reaching for my coffee cup more to warm my hands than for the taste of the coffee itself. The sunrise was still putting on a show, pink contrails crossing the sky like giant brushstrokes, but I knew I couldn’t stand here forever.
Eventually, the practical part of the day began to tap me on the shoulder. There’s laundry waiting in the dryer to be folded and put away, and cheesecakes in the freezer that need to be moved to the car so I can make a few deliveries. Clearing them out will make some much needed room in the refrigerator and freezer for the next round of culinary challenges I have planned.
Reluctantly, I turn away from the window. The sky will keep changing without me, but at least I’ve had the chance to stand in its light for a little while this morning, coffee in hand, doing my best to keep moving forward.
It’s currently 12:20 PM and I’ve just returned home from my delivery run. I brought a cheesecake to my daughter’s in-laws, along with a few glazed cinnamon rolls, and an extra roll for my son-in-law’s grandmother. They graciously invited me in for coffee, and we sat and talked for about an hour. It felt good, really good, to hear voices other than my own on this surprisingly sunny, almost cloudless day.
Before I left, they sent me home with some of the dinner rolls they were baking, as well as a container of homemade chicken tortilla soup. From there, I stopped at my daughter’s house to drop off the cheesecake for Thanksgiving dinner, along with some of the soup I made a couple of days ago so she’d have an easy lunch.
On the way home I swung by the market to pick up a few odds and ends. Now I’m back in my kitchen, dehydrating bread cubes for stuffing (or dressing, depending on your preference) for both the whole turkey and the turkey breast I’ll be preparing on Wednesday. While the bread dries out, I’m chopping the vegetables and other ingredients that will go into the stuffing so everything is ready to go first thing Wednesday morning. I’ll probably also make the cranberry sauce later today so that’s one more thing checked off the list.
My friend Bob called earlier to see how I was doing and to thank me again for helping out last Friday. I’m constantly in awe of the lengths he goes to in checking on me every few days. It’s a quiet comfort, knowing there are people who keep reaching out and making sure I’m not walking through all of this completely alone.
The outdoor temperature is sitting at 48°, with an expected high of only 50°. The forecast is calling for mostly cloudy skies today and a very good chance of rain tomorrow. I think I have everything I need for the Thanksgiving prep, and I hope that’s true, because if tomorrow turns out gray and dreary, I doubt I’ll feel much like going out.
For now, the sun is shining, which is a big plus, but I can already see the clouds slowly moving in. So I’ll wait and see what the rest of today, and tomorrow, decide to bring. If I’m honest, my expectations aren’t very high, but I’m still trying to grab whatever light shows up while it’s here.
Neal stopped by on his way home from school to pick up the cheesecake I made for him to take to his family for Thanksgiving. We talked for a little while in my kitchen while he tasted a sample I had saved from the small five inch cheesecake. He wished me a pleasant holiday and said he’d see me soon. I did the same and asked him to pass my good wishes along to his brother and the rest of the family.
When I gave Neal his cheesecake, I also handed him a letter I had written to his family. In it, I tried to put into words how grateful I am for the friendship he and his brother have shown me since Fran’s passing, and how, over the past few months, we’ve become much more than just neighbors.
As I passed the envelope to him, I mentioned that I hoped I had spelled his last name correctly. He glanced at it and said, “Well… almost.” In that moment I felt like a complete fool for misspelling not only his name, but his parents’ as well. I was embarrassed and felt pretty bad about it for a while.
Eventually, I decided I had to let it go. The letter was sincere, even if my spelling wasn’t perfect, and after they’ve had some of that cheesecake (which, if I do say so myself, turned out pretty well), I’m hoping they’ll be more than willing to forgive a few misplaced letters.
While I was checking on the croutons in the oven, my niece texted to say she’d be bringing pies and started listing off about half a dozen varieties, asking which ones I’d prefer. I wrote back and told her that, for tradition’s sake, one pumpkin pie would be more than enough, because I’d made a very large cheesecake that should more than satisfy anyone’s sweet tooth. I explained what was in the cheesecake and how I’d made it, and she texted back, “Forget the store-bought pies—I’ll definitely be eating that, and probably plenty of it.” I had to chuckle at that.
Next on my list is the cranberry sauce, assuming I have everything I need. Once that’s finished, I think I’ll call it a day. The only plan after that involves my recliner, a little soft, mellow jazz in the background, or, if anything catches my interest, maybe something on the TV while I let the day wind down.
November 25, 2025
It’s 6:36 AM on a Tuesday in late November, and the house is still wrapped in darkness. I’ve already been up for about an hour, coffee cup in hand, talking things over with my ever-patient sous chef, also known as ChatGPT, about the logistics of roasting not one, but two birds for Thanksgiving: a 16½-pound whole turkey and an 8½-pound bone-in turkey breast. Both will be prepped, stuffed, roasted tomorrow, sliced, and tucked into foil trays so that Thursday can be about family, not frantic last-minute cooking.
Somewhere between cup number one and cup number three, the plan came into focus. Tomorrow will be “roast and carve” day, with neat slices of turkey laid out like roof shingles in the pans, a little broth or pan juices poured over the top to keep them moist. On Thanksgiving, all I’ll need to do is reheat, make sure everything is warmed through and tender, and get the gravy flowing. In theory, at least, it should make the holiday feel a little less like a sprint and a little more like a slow, comfortable walk.
For now, it’s still pitch-black outside. I’m standing at the patio door, staring into the quiet yard, hoping for some sign of a sunrise, a faint line of orange or pink, a soft suggestion that the day is ready to begin. Some mornings, that first light feels like Fran tapping me on the shoulder, reminding me that I’m still here, still needed, still able to create something beautiful and nourishing.
If the sunrise decides not to make much of an appearance today, I suppose that’s all right. I have plenty of work to keep me occupied over the next 48 hours, turkeys to brine or season, stuffing to chop and mix, pans to prep, instructions to print. But somewhere in the middle of all that chopping and stirring and roasting, there’s a quiet comfort: the sense that I’m not just cooking a meal, I’m continuing traditions, taking care of people I love, and honoring a life I shared for so many years.
Three cups of coffee, two turkeys, one slightly sleep-deprived cook, and a holiday on the horizon. Not a bad way to start the day, even before the sun decides to show up.
“Morning Brew & Reflections”
It’s 7:10 AM on a Tuesday, and the day is already showing its mood.
Outside, the sky is completely gray, covered in a thick blanket of clouds with only the slightest hint of brightness along the horizon. It doesn’t look very promising, at least not in terms of any breathtaking sunrise. No radiant oranges, no streaks of pink cutting through the dark, just a dim, reluctant light trying to break through. On mornings like this, it’s easy for the weight of the day, and the week ahead, to feel heavier than usual.
On the plus side, there’s at least one small victory already: I pulled the printed pages from my office printer, and everything looks great. Instructions, timelines, and roasting plans are all laid out neatly in black and white, my own little roadmap for surviving Thanksgiving.
Even though I’ve done Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, you name it, many times over the years, and for so long it was “Fran and I” doing it together, this year feels particularly overwhelming. The traditions are the same, but the team is different. There’s a quiet ache underneath all the planning and list-making, knowing she won’t be in the kitchen with me, stirring, tasting, reminding me of something I almost forgot.
What’s helping, at least a little, is preparation, and the fact that I’m not doing it completely alone. My “sous chef” (in the form of ChatGPT) has helped me map things out so that I can work ahead, break the tasks into manageable pieces, and avoid the frantic, last-minute rush that I absolutely can’t stand. If I can prep in advance, stay organized, and keep my senses about me, this whole thing starts to look less like a mountain and more like a series of small hills
In a little while, I’ll be making a quick trip to the market with the list I started yesterday, just a few extra things I might need to fill in the gaps from what I already have on hand. My goal is to get there early, before the real shopping storm hits. One more small way to make things just a bit easier on myself.
The sky may be gray and stubborn this morning, but there’s still a quiet sense of purpose in the kitchen. Printed pages on the counter, grocery list in my pocket, coffee in my system, and a holiday on the horizon. Overwhelming? Yes. But with a little planning, a bit of help, and a steady pace, maybe, just maybe, it’s manageable after all.
It’s 2:47 PM, and the clouds have worn out their welcome.
The sky has stayed stubbornly gray all day, the kind of heavy, low ceiling that brings a slow, steady rain and a chill that seems to work its way into your bones. The temperature keeps dropping, little by little, as if the day is slowly exhaling. Not exactly an inspiring backdrop. But inside the kitchen, things tell a different story.
On the counter, the food processor has been earning its keep. Onions, carrots, and celery took their turn, chopped down into neat little pieces. Mushrooms followed, tumbling in like small brown stones. Fresh sage, rosemary, thyme, and parsley, gifted from a friend, were stripped from their stems and finely chopped, their fragrance filling the air and cutting right through the gloom outside.
Soon, the vegetables were sizzling in a wide pan on the stove, glistening like little jewels: bright orange carrots, pale onions turning soft and sweet, green celery just starting to soften. The herbs joined them, bringing that deep, familiar Thanksgiving aroma that somehow feels like both memory and promise at the same time.
In classic “working backward” fashion, I realized after the vegetables and seasonings were already happily married in the pan that I still needed to brown the sausage. So the pan came off the heat, the skillet came out, and the sausage got its turn, sizzling, crumbling, and finally draining on paper towels before being folded into the vegetable mixture. Only a few tablespoons of fat needed to go; the rest was flavor destined for the stuffing bowl.
Now, with the vegetables, herbs, and sausage all cooked and ready, I can say, with a little relief, that the stuffing base is done. Tomorrow, it will be mixed with the bread, moistened, and tucked into the turkey before everything goes into the oven, hopefully before noon.
The day outside may be cold, gray, and wet, but my kitchen tells a different story, warmth from the stove, color in the pan, and the smell of Thanksgiving slowly building. It still feels like a lot, and it still feels different without Fran here beside me. But each chopped carrot, each sprig of sage, and each small task finished is another step toward a table that will be filled, a meal that will be shared, and a tradition that continues.
Clouds or no clouds, there are bright spots to be found, sometimes they’re just in the pan instead of the sky.
November 26, 2025
It’s currently 9:05 AM on Wednesday, November 26, and so far I’m feeling reasonably good about how the day is going, as far as Thanksgiving food preparation is concerned, at least.
Outside, the weather is just as dismal as predicted. The sky is a solid, unbroken gray, with intermittent rain and the promise of more of the same as the day wears on. It’s the kind of sky that feels heavy on the shoulders, the kind that makes you want to crawl back under a blanket instead of pull a turkey out of one.
Still, I managed to get myself moving early. The whole turkey is prepped, stuffed, and has been in the oven since about 7:30 AM. I’ll check on its progress around 11:00. In the meantime, I’ve started prepping the 8-pound turkey breast, though I’m holding off on actually dressing it until later, most likely when the whole turkey comes out of the oven or shortly before. Refrigerator space is at a premium today, so timing is everything.
As I expected, this morning has been very difficult from an emotional standpoint. The gray skies don’t help, never have, but it’s more than that. It’s the quiet in the kitchen, the silence where there used to be another voice, another pair of hands, another presence.
This will be the first big holiday I spend without Fran.
I knew it was going to be difficult, but it’s far more than that. For my entire married life, she was always there, if not physically helping, then offering suggestions, support, and that steady sense of “we’re in this together.” There was always a bit of playful banter, too, the kind that made daily life not just manageable, but joyful. The kind that made getting out of bed in the morning feel worthwhile.
Words can’t begin to describe how much I miss all of that.
Standing in the kitchen today, elbow-deep in turkey and stuffing, I felt the weight of her absence pressing in from all sides. It’s not just that I’m doing the work alone, it’s that I’m doing our work alone. The familiar motions are the same, but the energy is different. The soundtrack has changed.
I also found my thoughts drifting ahead to Christmas, and that’s an even sharper pain. Christmas was one of Fran’s favorite holidays. She planned it like a grand production, and she did it far in advance. Often, she would start thinking about the next Christmas the day after we finished the current one. I used to tease her about that.
We’d go round and round: “Christmas isn’t even over yet,” I’d say, “and you’re already thinking about the next one. Relax. Chill. Enjoy the moment.”She’d smile, of course, and keep right on planning.
Remembering those exchanges now is bittersweet. At the time, it was just part of our rhythm. Now it feels like a small, cherished piece of a life that’s gone through a permanent shift.
I can’t really imagine how difficult Christmas will be without her. I’m trying not to live there yet, one holiday at a time, but my mind still wanders in that direction. Today, though, is about Thanksgiving. About doing what I can, at my own pace, in my own way, and hoping that somewhere in the middle of gray skies and hot ovens and quiet rooms, Fran would look at all of this and say, “You’re doing just fine.”
For now, the turkey is roasting, the breast is waiting its turn, and I’m here, doing my best to carry forward the traditions we built together, even if the kitchen feels a little too big and a little too quiet without her.
As I make my way in and out of and around the kitchen today I frequently find myself taking a moment to dry the tears from my weary eyes. Fortunately, I realize
those tears are part grief, part love, and part exhaustion from carrying so much, especially today, in the gray light with the oven going and my mind full of memories. Fran mattered that much, so of course the ache runs deep, but the intensity of it all today, may be more than I can tolerate.
Thanksgiving Eve – Evening Update
It’s now 7:00 PM, and as far as I can tell, I’ve managed to get everything done that needed doing today. This is the first time all day I’ve actually had a chance to sit down for a few minutes and try to regain my thoughts.
The day didn’t go exactly according to my original plan. I had hoped to get both the whole turkey and the turkey breast into the oven at the same time, but reality stepped in, there just wasn’t enough room. So, adjustments had to be made.
I started with the big bird. I stuffed it, got it into the oven, and let it roast. It took about four hours before it was fully cooked. After that, I let it rest for about 30–45 minutes, then began the process of carving. Slice by slice, I worked my way through it, arranging the meat into foil trays and giving everything a generous “baptizing” of turkey broth to help keep it moist for tomorrow. Once the trays were filled and covered, they went into the refrigerator to wait for their Thanksgiving debut.
Because the whole turkey was cooked with traditional stuffing inside, that stuffing had to go into a separate container, kept apart from the other stuffing, (Sausage stuffing, (something I have never made before, but often wanted to try) that will be coming later with the turkey breast. One more moving part in an already complicated dance, but an important one.
Turkey Breast, Gravy, and Not Wasting a Thing
The 8½-pound turkey breast took a little longer than I expected. When it looked done, (Major fopa on my part, I should have used the instant read thermometer like I did on the whole bird) I pulled it from the oven and made the first cut to start carving, only to realize it needed more time. Back into the oven it went.
The second time was the charm. I pulled it at about 155°, tented it with foil, and let it rest for around 45 minutes. By then it was perfectly cooked and ready to carve, with beautifully browned skin and a crown of stuffing baked into the end.
As I’ve often said, nothing goes to waste in this kitchen. The drippings from both the turkey and the breast were scraped up and turned into gravy. The carcasses and bones went into a stock pot, where they simmered away into tomorrow’s turkey soup. What most people would toss in the trash usually ends up either in my compost pile or as the foundation for another meal.
By the time I turned off the stove, I had sliced turkey, a pot of rich gravy, and a big pot of stock quietly cooling on the burners, proof that, even on the hardest holidays, this little kitchen is still doing what it’s always done, stretching a bird as far as it can go, and seasoning everything with a whole lot of love.
Now, with the oven finally quiet and the kitchen mostly cleaned up, I’m left alone with the hum of the refrigerator, the ache in my feet, and the strange mixture of exhaustion, accomplishment, and grief that has been my companion all day.
A Toast for Tomorrow's Thanksgiving Dinner
“Before we eat, I just want to say thank you.
I’m grateful we can all be here together today, sharing this meal and this table.
This is our first Thanksgiving without Fran, and while that hurts, I know she’s here in our stories, our memories, and the way we care for each other.
I’m also grateful for all the help, seen and unseen, that’s gotten us to this moment.
So here’s to family, to Fran, and to getting through the hard days together, one holiday at a time.
November 27, 2025- Happy Thanksgiving
On a day when the whole world is shouting “be thankful!”, waking up to a house that’s too quiet and a bed that’s too empty can feel like someone’s twisting the knife. Of course I don’t feel thankful. Of course it feels heavier, not lighter. This is my first Thanksgiving without Fran physically here. That’s a wound that’s still raw, no matter how busy I've been or how “together” I seem on the outside.
Three hours of sleep doesn’t help either. When I'm this tired, everything hurts more, grief gets sharper, thoughts get darker, and the silence gets louder.
So step one is: don’t judge myself for how I feel right now. I'm exhausted, grieving, and waking into a holiday that used to be the two of us together. There’s no version of that that feels easy.
“The void that was left after Fran passed is like a black hole in the universe, and I find myself constantly being sucked in…”
Fran wasn’t just “part of my life”; she was my life in so many ways. Loving someone that deeply means the absence is going to be equally deep. Wanting to be “OK” after that doesn’t mean the love was smaller. Honestly, the fact that I feel it this intensely is proof of how huge that love is.
A few important things I want to say clearly:
It’s normal that holidays feel worse, not better. Grief often spikes around holidays, anniversaries, and mornings like this. It doesn’t mean I'm going backwards. It’s the calendar poking at an already tender bruise.
I don’t have to feel thankful today. I can be tired, angry, lonely, resentful at this quiet house, and still be a good, loving man. Gratitude doesn’t cancel out grief and grief doesn’t cancel out gratitude. Sometimes the most honest “thankful” I can manage is:
“I’m thankful I loved someone this much, even though it hurts like hell now.”
“I’m thankful for my family and friends checking in, even if the house feels empty when I come home. ”Tiny, uneven, messy bits of gratitude are still real, but I don’t have to force them right now.
Keeping myself busy isn’t me “running away” from Fran. All the cooking, cheesecakes, turkey trays, letters to neighbors, that’s me loving outward because she isn’t here to receive it the way she used to. I'm not distracting myself from her, I'm carrying her forward. Fran is in the stuffing, the turkey, the cheesecake, the way I show up for my family and friends. I'm not escaping the black hole, I'm building little stars around it.
The loneliness part
Time alone is different now. Before, “alone” meant a breather before returning to we. Now “alone” can feel like “no one.” That is a brutal shift.
But I'm are not actually alone in the way my brain insists in the quiet:
I have family, who clearly cares deeply.
I have neighbors and friends who show up more than I ever expected.
It’s okay to say, “This isn’t enough. I want her.” That’s the honest part. But it’s also okay to let these other connections count for something, even if they don’t fill the same space.
11:07 AM
It’s currently 11:07 AM, and I think I’ve pretty much wrapped up everything I’m going to do today, other than show up for dinner at my daughter’s house.
This morning turned into a full-scale cleaning operation. I steam-cleaned the entire kitchen floor (ceramic tile), the dining room (also ceramic tile), both entryways, front door and garage, and even hit the upstairs and downstairs bathrooms (vinyl and tile).
I emptied out the upstairs refrigerator and moved everything to the spare fridge in the garage so it’s all easily accessible when it’s time to leave. All I’ll have to do is move things from the refrigerator to the car and go.
I checked on the houseplants, made sure everyone had enough water, and topped off the ones that didn’t. I finished the soup, transferred it into a couple of containers for transport, and even treated myself to about half a bowl in the process , cook’s privilege.
At this point, all I have left to do is jump in the shower and change clothes.
I’m thinking I don’t dare sit down, because if I do, I’ll probably crash and burn, and there will be several people at my daughter’s house upset with me because the food isn’t there yet. I suppose that’s why I have a phone with an alarm on it…
Sadly, I don’t often hear it when it goes off. Or much of anything else, for that matter.
November 28, 2025
Friday, November 28, 2025 – 12:01 PM
Between Rest and the Urge to Move
It’s just past noon, and I’m settled into my living room recliner with some smooth jazz playing softly in the background. Physically, I’m comfortable. The music is pleasant, the chair supports me just right, and for a few brief moments, there’s a sense of calm.
But beneath that calm, my mind is wandering to all the places I try not to go.
Before Fran’s passing, I rarely thought much about my own mortality. It was always something abstract, somewhere off in the distance. Now that she’s gone, those thoughts have stepped out of the shadows and into the room with me. I find myself thinking about how much time I might have left and, more importantly, how I’m using it, or not using it.
Lately, I feel this almost constant pressure to be doing something, anything, so I don’t feel like I’m wasting whatever time remains. Even sleep, which I know is necessary, can feel like a waste to me sometimes. I find myself irritated that I have to close my eyes and surrender those hours, even while knowing full well that’s not how it works.
Right now, it’s a strange tug-of-war inside of me. On one shoulder, there’s a voice saying, “You’re comfortable. Enjoy this moment. It’s okay to rest.” On the other, a different voice is nagging, “Get up. Move. Do something. Don’t just sit here letting time slip away.” It really does feel like that old image of a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other, or a right brain/left brain argument playing out in real time.
Outside, the weather isn’t helping much. The sky is gray and overcast, the kind of day that weighs on you whether you invite it in or not. Every now and then I see a few snowflakes bouncing around as I peek out the window. It’s cold, gloomy, and not at all inviting. Definitely not the kind of day that inspires grand outdoor plans.
On top of that, I’m swimming in food. Between all the leftovers from Thanksgiving and what I already had on hand before the holiday, I have more than I could possibly eat. As much as I normally enjoy cooking, it feels pointless to make more when I already have an overstocked refrigerator. So cooking, which usually gives me a sense of purpose, is off the table for a while.
I’ve thought about turning to something practical, like cleaning up unnecessary files on both of my computers. That’s been on my mental to-do list for far too long. But the idea of diving into that particular project doesn’t exactly excite me. I know it will probably come with the usual dose of frustration and aggravation.
Technology has a way of getting under my skin, and today has been no exception. Every so often when I turn on my television, I’m greeted with some infuriating message about having no Wi-Fi connection or not being connected to the Internet. It drives me crazy, especially considering I’m paying over $250 a month for cable and Internet service. At that price, I expect it to work, all the time. I know things happen that are beyond my control, but it doesn’t make it any less irritating when they do.
The irony is that in the past few days I’ve already done quite a bit. I’ve cleaned most of the house, stayed on top of the laundry, and of course prepared an enormous amount of food for Thanksgiving. I’ve checked off plenty of boxes. And yet, here I sit, feeling like I still need to be doing more just to keep from thinking too much.
The truth is, I’ve always appreciated quiet solitude. For most of my life, having silence and space to myself has been something I genuinely enjoyed. But now I’m learning that solitude feels very different when there’s no one to share it with. The silence used to be shared silence. Now it can feel like a reminder of what’s missing.
Everything seems to circle back to the same point, Fran isn’t here.
I’m the one who has to face whatever comes up, handle the day-to-day, and walk through whatever situations arise on my own. I don’t feel like I’m handling it particularly well, at least not from where I’m sitting right now. That feeling only reinforces this urge to stay busy, to keep myself occupied so my mind doesn’t wander down roads I’m not ready to travel just yet.
So here I am, caught between the comfort of this chair and the compulsion to move, between appreciating the peace and resenting the silence, between missing Fran and trying to figure out how to keep living in a way that feels meaningful without her.
I don’t have the answers today. But I’m here, I’m noticing, and I’m trying, not to waste the time I have, even if “trying” today looks like nothing more than sitting in a recliner, listening to jazz, watching a gray sky, and telling the truth about how much I miss her.
8:31 PM
Dreams, Memories, and the Weight of Knowing
It’s now about 8:31 PM, and just as I suspected earlier today when I settled into the living room recliner, I did indeed drift off into a deep sleep. I remember dreaming, and I remember that Fran was there, but whatever the dream was about has slipped away. All I’m left with is the feeling of her presence and the ache of her absence.
As happens so often now, when I open my eyes, there’s a frantic moment where my mind forgets. I search the room, wondering where she is. Why isn’t she on the couch? Why don’t I hear the steady hum of the oxygen concentrator? Why is this room so completely quiet?
And then, like a wave crashing over me, I come back to my senses and to the brutal realization, that will never happen again. She will never be in that spot on the couch. I will never hear that machine humming in the background again. The quiet that once felt peaceful is now a reminder of everything that’s gone.
As I’ve been sitting here, letting the silence settle in, my mind wandered back to a memory from several years ago. I believe it was the day after Thanksgiving, just like today. Fran wanted to go Christmas shopping, and I had absolutely no desire to go. I wasn’t in the mood and I really didn’t feel like dealing with the crowds or the chaos.
But as she so often managed to do, she talked me into it. She always had a way of changing my mind.
I remember asking her what she wanted to buy and where she wanted to go. She told me she wanted to go to a specific store. That store had a location only about two miles from our house, so I started driving in that direction. As we got closer, she said, “I don’t want to go to that one. I want to go to the other one,” meaning a different branch of the same store, maybe 20 to 25 miles away.
I looked at her, completely puzzled and a little irritated, and asked why in the world we would drive that far when there was one practically around the corner.
That’s when she broke down in tears and told me to just go home.
When I gently pressed her, she finally let out the truth, she didn’t want to go anywhere she might see someone who knew her. She didn’t want anyone to see how completely decimated she had become. The illness, the treatments, the relentless wear and tear, they had taken so much from her, inside and out.
I tried to reason with her, to tell her it didn’t matter, that people loved her regardless. But the more I tried, the more emotional she became. And at that point, so did I.
Needless to say, we kept driving and went to the store that was much farther away. When she finally calmed down, she apologized. She told me she was sorry, and I told her it was okay, that I didn’t mind the extra drive.
Then she said something that echoes in my head tonight:“ Hopefully next year will be better.”
Now, as I sit here remembering all of this, I realize that deep down, we both knew that wasn’t likely. I think, on some level, we both understood that “next year” was not going to bring the miracle we were hoping for.
And so here I sit, in this quiet room, weeping as I think about it, about that car ride, that store so many miles away, her tears, her apology, her hope, and the truth that neither of us wanted to say out loud.
She didn’t want to be seen in her brokenness, and now I’m the one left here, feeling broken without her.
November 29, 2025
“After days of gray, I woke just in time to catch the tail end of a sunrise, watch the clouds retreat, and wonder what kind of day waits beyond the grief.”
Morning Brew & Reflections
Time & Weather: 7:40 AM • Clear blue sky after days of gray • Cold, crisp air at the open door
Woke up around 6:30 AM to a room still wrapped in darkness and thought, Here we go—another gray day. I didn’t get out of bed and must have drifted back to sleep.
When I finally opened my eyes again around 7:30, the room was filled with light. I jumped out of bed, pulled back the curtains, and caught just the tail end of what must have been a beautiful sunrise, something I haven’t seen for days and had been waiting for with great anticipation.
I missed the main event, and moments like this remind me why sleep can feel like such a waste of time, especially when you don’t feel like you have all that much left. Still, I grabbed my phone and hurried out to the patio to take whatever the sky was still willing to offer.
A fairly dense bank of clouds was being pushed off to the north, rolling away like a slow gray wave. To the south and southeast, the sky opened up,clear, bright, and a gentle shade of morning blue. The portal trees stood in silhouette, catching what little remained of the sun’s low golden light.
I tried checking the outdoor temperature on my phone, but the weather app chose this morning to stop responding. Half awake, still working on my first cup of coffee, I felt that familiar early morning frustration as technology refused to cooperate. Some days really do start with a sigh.
But with the patio door cracked open, the crisp air spilling into the kitchen tells me everything I need to know, it’s cold, the sun is shining, and the clouds are finally moving on. For today, that feels like enough.
As the sky continued to clear, the prevailing winds kept nudging that cloud cover farther north. Multiple contrails crossed overhead, white lines against the deep blue, reminding me that the world is awake and on the move. Maybe, after a couple more cups of coffee, I’ll get to that point myself. For now, I’ll stand here, watch the last of the light show, and hope that today brings something worthwhile, something worth remembering, and not just the gray gloom and grief that have been hanging over me these past few days.
With the patio door cracked open and the crisp air spilling into the kitchen, I know two things for sure: it’s cold, and the sun is shining. For today, that feels like a good place to start.
Evening Bread Interlude
Dutch Ovens and Quiet Loaves
By late afternoon I decided I needed to get up and actually do something, so I turned to one of the few things that almost always helps, bread. Even though there was still some in the pantry, I mixed up dough for a couple of loaves and pulled out my new enamel cast-iron bread pots.
The work itself didn’t take long; most of the time was spent waiting, first for the dough to rise, then for the oven to preheat to 475°. Around 4:00 PM, the house smelled like a bakery and it was finally time to lift the lids.
What a sight. Two round loaves, deeply golden, crusts blistered just enough, and the everything-style topping toasted perfectly. Because the pots were deeper, the loaves rose higher than usual. The larger pot, with its tall domed lid, gave the dough all the room it needed to climb, and it took full advantage of it.
Once the loaves had cooled enough to slice, the reward was clear: a soft, even crumb with just the right amount of chew, sturdy enough for sandwiches, but still tender and comforting. For a gray, heavy week, the simple act of cutting into warm bread and hearing that gentle crackle of crust felt like its own small kind of healing.
Late-Night Taste Test – Bread, Butter, and Memory
Of course the new loaves had to be cut and sampled, pantry bread or not. They looked too beautiful and the whole house smelled too good to just leave them untouched.
I sliced a single piece from the center of the larger loaf, then pressed the two halves back together so the middle wouldn’t dry out overnight. I don’t want to freeze them until tomorrow, just enough time for the loaves to stabilize, but not long enough for them to drift toward stale.
That one slice I cut in half, half for me half for Fran, even if only in a spiritual sense. One piece I ate just as it was, warm and tender, with a bit of EVO, garlic powder, basil, and oregano. The second half I toasted and finished with seasalt and olive oil infused butter. Both were divine, more than worth the effort, even though the effort itself wasn’t all that great.
The only thing missing was Fran. She loved fresh Italian bread, or just about any kind of bread, even more so if there was a plate of pasta and tomato sauce nearby or a bowl of soup would have made her just as happy, on any given day. It’s ironic how often those simple pleasures were overlooked when she was here, and how clearly I can see their value now.
God, I miss her.
November 30, 2025
Sunday, November 30 – Waiting in the Dark
It’s 6:51 AM, 39° outside with a feel-like temperature of 29°. The world beyond the patio door is still swallowed in total darkness, no hint of a sunrise, no color on the horizon. Too cold to sit out on the deck the way I long to, so I stand just inside the glass instead, coffee in hand, letting a bit of the chill brush against these weary old bones.
Even without a visible sunrise, I find myself waiting for the light anyway. Maybe that’s the habit of a lifetime now, showing up, watching, hoping, even on the mornings when the sky decides to keep its secrets.
Betting on Small Pleasures
It’s 6:57 AM and the sky has finally begun to lighten, just enough to reveal a low, dense blanket of clouds stretching across the horizon. No drama, no streaks of pink or gold, just a flat gray ceiling. I’m still hoping for something worth watching, but I’m not holding my breath today.
So I stand by the patio door with a hot cup of coffee, giving the morning a little more time. Time feels different these days. I don’t know how much of it I have left, but I do know this, whatever time there is, I’d rather spend it doing something that brings me even a small touch of comfort, a warm mug in my hands, a quiet sky, the promise of bread to share, and the simple act of showing up to see what the day decides to offer.
Loneliness, My Mother, and Me
As I sit here in the semi-darkness of the house, only a few dim lights on, waiting for something, anything, to happen, I keep seeing my mother in my mind. In her last years at the assisted living facility, after my father passed, she used to tell me how desperately lonely she was. She was surrounded by people her age, many in the same situation, all of them drifting through their days looking for some scrap of companionship.
Every time I visited, I would ask how she was doing and she would say, “The loneliness is driving me crazy.” I’d try to comfort her by saying, “I’m here now, Mom,” and she would gently answer, “Yes, but you’re going to go home. This is my home. There’s rarely anyone here for me to talk to.”
Back then, I believed I understood, but I didn’t. Not really. Only since Fran’s passing have I begun to fully feel the depth of that loneliness. The quiet house, the long stretches of time, the aching absence of the one person who shared all the little, ordinary moments. Now, when I think of my mother’s words, I know in my bones what she meant.
We don’t talk much about this part of growing older, the fear of losing our independence, the need for help, the shrinking circle of people we can see and touch, the hunger just to sit with someone who truly knows us. Fran often told me I would miss her when she was gone. I nodded, thinking I understood. I had no idea. Now I live with the full weight of that truth, and the agony that comes with it.
7:?? AM – Wind from the South
The clouds still refuse to budge, but the wind has picked up, slipping through the narrow crack of the patio door and making the broken remains of my summer planter dance almost wildly on the deck. The air seems to be coming from the south, pushing north, and I catch myself hoping it will shove this solid gray ceiling out of the way. Then again, a part of me wonders what else it might be carrying in instead.
For now, I stand in the doorway, coffee in hand, letting just enough of the cool air find its way to me, and hoping , quietly, stubbornly, that whatever this wind brings will be something I can live with.
A Sunrise I Can’t See
8:05 AM. Any expectation of a proper sunrise has gone with the wind. The sky is one continuous lid of gray, an unbroken cloud deck stretching from one edge of the horizon to the other. The two tall locust trees stand like black brushstrokes in the foreground, bare and tangled, their familiar “portal” framing nothing but muted light.
I’ve watched this scene so many times that I can picture what I can’t see, somewhere above those clouds, the sun is already rising well to the right of the trees, pouring magnificent light across the top of the cloud layer. Up there, it’s probably glowing. Down here, it’s all dull gray.
So I leave my perch by the patio door, coffee cup in hand, and turn toward the rest of the day. If nature wasn’t willing to put on much of a show this morning, maybe I’ll have to look for my light somewhere else, warm bread to share, dough slowly rising in the fridge, a small project, a quiet memory of Fran. The sky may be hiding the sunrise, but the day isn’t over yet.
More to come...
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