Thanksgiving was lovely (exception: the aforementioned assault of my teenager personality). Everyone did a good job of making food with unmitigated amounts of butter. I personally contributed somewhere in the neighborhood of a pound of butter to the event, disguised as yams (which were excellent) and three botched chocolate decadence cakes (which were [barely] edible). I thought it was the oven, but have since concluded that Williams Sonoma has failed me (a first) and that it was the recipe's fault, so don't make it. It looks good; don't be fooled. I should have known better than to make a dessert that contains two measley tablespoons of sugar.
Ryan made good cauliflower that involved cheese and mayonnaise and I suspect contributed to my postprandeal angina.
Interestingly, the Paradise Pumpkin Pie (please excuse embarrassing name) that I made in an effort to use up the last of the Thanksgiving accoutrements was really good, despite its more humble origins than its decadent predecessors. I made it on a whim and, although it had all the chicness of it Village Inn impersonators, people seemed to really like it. I guess you never know.
Being here in the late autumn makes me homesick. I love the way the gray skies light up the trees; fortunately the late summer meant I arrived just in time to bid farewell to the colors. Utah is nice and everything, but there's no place like home.