I was tremendously disappointed in the roast beef we had last night. I removed it after the calculated time, my husband decided it was too rare (there is no such state, in my world) and put it back in the oven. Beef roasts have a tendency to keep on self-cooking after you remove them from the oven, and that fact combined with the extra ten minutes under the heat turned the tiny little roast well-done, a meat state I detest because I have to chew, chew, chew it and it loses most of its flavour. The excellent gravy and the bread right out of the oven almost made up for it, though.

In two more days, I will be able to enjoy my mother’s fine cuisine instead, however, and the well-done roast beef will be a thing of faint memory. I will meet the ever-increasingly charming Seamus O’Malley, the new Maine Coon kitten in residence at my parents’ house. In general, I will feel serene and trouble-free. For me, there’s something about being in the abode of your progenitors that instills a sense of “Everything’s okay again,” no matter how old I’ll get, I think. I wonder if other people feel the same way.