This year, Louisa and I spent Thanksgiving alone with the goats. We figured, since we’ve been spending so much time at the Farmerie cranking out caramels so as to make our business which is tiny a little bit bigger a little bit better so as to make a little bit more money so we can build our goats a better life a roof to live under and maybe even some walls and spoil them with treats and such and also not be so broke generally — well, we decided we owed a great deal of thanks to them regardless of all that. So we spent the day giving pedicures to the goats (me) and deticking/brushing them one by one (Louisa) and playing tag with them around the goat yard (doggies) and snowtrotting through the woods through the fog the mystery of life (all of us), and then Louisa and I said goodnight to the animals so long and we went home, seared duck breast on the stove, mashed garden potatoes mixed in goat milk/butter pan juices shallots garlic stilton port, cut in to some raw goat cheddar that we made in july, drank two and one third bottles of wine, then promptly passed out on the couch. At 7. In the pm. It was a good day. A holiday.

All that to say, we’re very grateful, despite what our tiredness and manicness fail to articulate so much of the time. For our animals, our families, our friends. Our neighbors, our thinkers, our doers, our strangers, our strangenesses. Our everything. Our nothing. 

You.