Every year, I choose one special thing to make to give as little gifts to friends, my hairdresser, and various other people who might like something sweet. This year, I am making my mother’s gingersnaps, and in the next few days, a recipe will follow. (Today is a busy day making chili for my husband’s party at work.)

But I thought I would post a sneak preview of these little gems, which are excellent keepers, especially when they are in a tin.

Last weekend was chock full of community events, friends, and food. The first Saturday in December is always big in Winthrop. There are church fairs, craft fairs, open houses, and, perhaps the most important, the Rotary’s Christmas-tree sale. (I bought a sweet little tree, perfect for our small house.) Then there is the holiday parade, complete with ambulances, fire trucks, dancing girls, and lots of candy being thrown. So much candy, in fact, that kids bring bags so they can gather the booty as the parade passes.

This year, some of the library trustees—-me, Mary Jane Auns, Liz Sienko, and Lorraine Fleury—-along with Shane Malcolm Billings, librarian extaordinaire, had planned to march in the parade. So on that cold, snowy, blowy late Saturday afternoon, we met at the top of the hill, by Cumberland Farms and Audette’s Hardware, to line up with the other participants. We brought our snappy banner, a little red wagon full of candy as well as library handouts, and we even had some children along, little elves who were more than happy to pass out the candy. (What child doesn’t want to pass out candy?) Naturally, the children had some of the candy, and the adults might have nipped a little, too. (I grabbed a bag of Swedish fish, one of my favorites.) After all, it was cold, and we needed to sustain ourselves.

As we waited at the top of the hill, the day grew darker and the weather colder. The dancing girls, in their skimpy costumes, jigged in place to keep warm. Because the library contingent qualified as walkers, we were told to go across the street to wait by the bank, and except for the Latin Club, off to one side in their fluttering white tunics, we seemed to be the only walkers waiting in the parking lot.

“Not much coordination,” I observed.

“Does this remind you of something out of a Barbara Pym novel?” Shane asked.

“Oh, yes,” I replied. “We are definitely in County Pym right now.”

A little while later, a police officer told us to come back across the street and wait behind a line of ambulances, who were heading the parade. As our group crossed, the man who originally sent us to wait by the bank asked me, “Why are you coming back here?” And he wasn’t smiling.

Fortunately, I’ve been involved with enough community activities so that I am relatively unfazed by this kind of disorganization. I pointed to the police offer. “He told us to come back.”

The man relented and smiled. “Oh, well. I guess he outranks me.”

Lucky us! No fine for disobeying orders. At least not this time.

Finally, with a blare of the sirens, the ambulances lurched forwarded. Lorraine and I were the banner bearers, and we marched sharply to keep up with the ambulances. In fact, we marched so sharply that we lost the rest of our group, who was busy passing out candy and handouts.

“Slow down!” we were told.

We slowed down. At least for a while, but then we pulled ahead again.

It didn’t matter. Along the street, children and adults waved and smiled at us.

“Merry Christmas!” someone called out. “Happy holidays!”

Our little Main Street was aglow with street lights and Christmas lights and filled with people. Somehow, I couldn’t stop smiling, and it wasn’t just because the cold had frozen my face in place. I guess you might say I caught a little holiday spirit on that march down the hill. Happy holidays, indeed.

Yesterday, I rode my bike into town to do errands. How chilly it was! A perfect day to stop at The Flaky Tart for some bean soup and to read Susan Poulin’s warm, funny book Finding Your Inner Moose. I’ll be writing about this book when I have finished with it, but in the meantime, if Susan is coming to a town near you for a reading, go listen to her and buy one of her books.

Islandport Press is the publisher of Susan’s book—full disclosure: Susan and I are friends—and they have a nifty events calendar that lists the times and places of not only Susan’s readings but also of other writers they have published. Check Islandport Press out, and buy a book for someone on your Christmas list.

Yesterday, my dog, Liam, and I went into the woods to gather pine for a window-box arrangement. There is a path lined with pine trees, and I nip some branches every year, taking care not to cut too many from the same tree. As the trees are thriving, I seem to be doing a good job of judging how much to take.

The dog loves these outings. Being in the woods is one of his favorite things, and if a few leaves can be kicked for him to chase, then so much the better.

The woods are still in late November. There is hardly a flutter or a sound. No ethereal song from the hermit thrush. No chirring of insects. Dark green and brown are the predominant colors, but I find the limited range lovely and soothing.

Soon I had a basket full of greenery, and it was time to come home, where I put together a chicken casserole for supper. It must be said that I don’t have fond youthful memories of casseroles, which often consisted of cream of mushroom soup and Veg-All. I can still taste that combination, even though it has been over 40 years since I’ve eaten it. Some taste memories remain etched in the brain.

For many years, I eschewed casseroles altogether, but as I’ve grown older, I’ve softened a bit and have wondered, why can’t casseroles taste good if they are made with good ingredients? As it turns out, they can, and for some time now, I’ve been fiddling with recipes to make a tasty casserole. I think I’ve succeeded.

The recipe below is marvelously adaptive. If you start with a garlic-yogurt cream sauce, then the possibilities are many. Tuna fish could be used. Pork could be used. Basil, oregano, or dill. (The last two are perfectly tasty when dried, but I would always stick with fresh basil.) I used rice, but pasta is also a possibility. Then there are the other ingredients—mushrooms, celery, carrots, peas. Whatever you have. Chickpeas and nuts for a vegetarian option. Green beans for a green bean casserole.

The final proof was with my husband, Clif, who had seconds and had to use some self-restraint so that he wouldn’t go back for thirds.

A warm casserole on a cold night might not be high cuisine, but it is very comforting indeed.

[amd-zlrecipe-recipe:10]

Addendum: I forget to mention that I sautéed the mushrooms and celery, together, for about 5 minutes until they were soft. If I were to use peas or carrots, then I would cook them first, too.

Thanksgiving is over, and a very good one it was, spent with family and a friend who has come to seem like part of the family. There was a frenzy of cooking, but as all the leftovers are gone, it seems that we made exactly the right amount of everything. We went to see the terrific movie Lincoln, and unless I’m very much mistaken, it will win the Oscar for best picture.

Now is that in-between time, when we slide from Thanksgiving and move toward Christmas. At our little house in the big woods, the yard is frozen and still, green and brown and frosted, but not covered with snow. The flowers, what’s left of them, are in their November garb.

 The parsley looks more than a little limp, yet it might be usable. Maybe.

Fall chores are winding down. The yard is raked, but there is still some wood to stack.

This afternoon, I’ll be hauling wood. The dog will help me by barking and circling the wheelbarrow, his warm breath almost visible on this chilly day.

‘Tis the day before Thanksgiving, and even though I am not hosting Thanksgiving this year—we are going to our daughter’s home in SoPo—there has been a flurry of cooking on 74 Narrows Pond Road. The squash bread and the gravy are made and are in the freezer. This morning, I mixed the green bean casserole—made with a lovely garlic yogurt cream sauce rather than cream of mushroom soup—and the sweet potato casserole, with a walnut crunch topping rather than marshmallows.

As soon as I am done posting this piece, I will work on the pies—apple and chocolate cream. For the chocolate cream, I will just make the shell today and then fill it first thing tomorrow morning so that the crust doesn’t get soggy. And for our friend Diane, who will be joining us, I’ll also make some cinnamon pie knots. I know how much she loves them, and if I making enough pie dough for three crusts, then I might as will just double the recipe and have some left over for pie knots.

I love this time of year, when the leaves have fallen, and the landscape takes on a frosted, austere beauty. Each November, I hope the snow doesn’t come until December so that there is plenty of time to enjoy the fields and the woods, where we go to clip greens for our holiday arrangements. Naturally, the snow comes when it pleases, but so far it has been a beautiful November.

A happy Thanksgiving to all. Have a good feast and good—but not heated—discussions around the table as you gather together with family and friends.

On Saturday, I baked two buttercup squash purchased from Farmer Kev. (Thank you, Farmer Kev, for all the fresh, clean organic vegetables you delivered all summer long.)

I baked them at 375° for about an hour, until they were very soft, and when the it had all cooled, I scooped out the soft squash and mashed it until it was smooth. Then, using a tried and true pumpkin bread recipe from Betty Crocker, I substituted the squash for the pumpkin, and made two loaves of bread, which went into the freezer. I’ll be taking them out on Thanksgiving morning.

But then I found I had some leftover squash, about a cup and half.

What to do? Why, make a squash side dish to go with dinner that night. I chopped four sage leaves and set them aside.

In a small saucepan, I melted 1/2 tablespoon of butter in 1/4 cup of milk and added them to the cooked squash, beating the mixture until it was nice and smooth. Then, in another small sauce pan, I melted 1 tablespoon of butter, added the chopped sage leaves, and let the butter turn a beautiful brown while the sage leaves became crisp. This took several minutes and constant watching. You want browned butter, not burnt butter. I put the squash in little individual dishes, drizzled the sage butter on top, and baked it for 30 minutes or so at 375°.

Looks a little messy, I know, but it was oh-so-good. It would be easy to increase this squash recipe so that a casserole dish would be filled rather than an individual dish.

‘Tis the season for winter squash. So stock up and cook!

For the past few days, I have been sick with a flu, and I have had all the usual symptoms: headache, fever, runny eyes, runny nose, a cough. One day, while the unraked leaves beckoned as well as many other projects, I just lay on the couch, listening to Public Radio. I like Public Radio as much as the next person, but lying around all day drives me nuts. While in the usual course of a day I have plenty of quiet time—for reading and writing—I also have quite a bit of active time for chores and exercise, and that’s exactly how I like it.

But the thing that bothered me the most was losing my sense of smell and taste, which always happens when I have a cold or the flu, and even though I have come to expect this loss, I still dread it. It seems strange, I know, to mind not having a sense of taste or smell when the head is pounding and the eyes and nose are running none-stop, but I do.

Ever since I can remember, I have had a very keen sense of smell and taste, and I can smell things that my husband, Clif, can only dream of. One day, quite a few years ago, we were in Boston, having lunch at Quincy Market. As we ate, I picked up a strong smell, the smell of a horse. In Boston? In Quincy Market?

“Clif,” I said, “You’re going to think I’m crazy, but I smell a horse.”

I expected him to agree that I was indeed crazy, but instead he smiled and shook his head.

“What?” I asked.

“Look behind you.”

And there, a block or so away, was indeed a horse with a police officer.

Was Clif, who can hardly smell a thing, impressed? You bet he was.

My world is as much defined by smell and taste as it is by sight and hearing. When taste and smell are gone, I feel a little unmoored, unable to translate the world in my accustomed way. Something dear and essential is missing.

Each time this happens, I always think, “What if I never get my sense of taste and smell back? What if I’m like this for the rest of my life?”

What a horrible thing it would be. Fortunately, after a cold or flu, I have always regained these two senses, and how glad I am to have them back.

Quite rightly, we place a high value on sight and hearing, and I certainly wouldn’t want to lose either of those senses. But it seems to me that we undervalue taste and smell, and often it is only when they are gone that we realize how vital they are.

My sense of smell and taste were only gone for one day. Now when I eat toast, made from my homemade bread, I can taste the slightly sweet and nutty flavor of the whole wheat flour as well as the butter, rich and salty. My grapefruit has its wonderful tang softened by a little sugar.

I might not be completely well, but with my sense of taste and smell restored, I feel much, much better.