Rectangles and Pie

Thanksgiving. The apartment smells like butter, which is probably the best thing an apartment can smell like at nine in the morning.

I had the sketchbook out earlier, I don't know why, just had it open on the table with my coffee. I tried to draw the window. The result is on a page that currently contains: four rectangles of varying commitment, one shape that was supposed to be the window frame but looks more like a door frame drawn by someone working from memory of a door they once heard described, and some eraser smudging that I think technically counts as shading. I closed it and moved on.

The window attempt. Rectangles.

The sketchbook went face-down on the table, which is just where it lives now apparently.

I'm making a pie this afternoon. Apple. The recipe is from a card that belonged to my grandmother, and I've made it enough times now that I only check the card for the cinnamon-to-nutmeg ratio, which I always second-guess. There's something satisfying about that, not having memorized it on purpose, just having made it often enough.

Thanksgiving morning. Coffee. The window I tried to draw.

Happy Thanksgiving, if you're celebrating. I hope your morning is slow and smells like butter too.