It's a long time since I roasted a pumpkin or pumpkin seeds. Matt and I are invited to a waif-and-stray dinner tomorrow (for people who have no family or any place to go) in the building and I'm taking pumpkin soup; Matt is taking chips. I bought a darling little pumpkin, so cute I wanted to keep it for decoration, but it will achieve immortality in another form, that is, if it's any good.

To begin, of course, I had to make chicken stock. You can't buy boiling fowl any more, at least not where I live in Toronto, so I went to a No Frills and bought a bag of chicken legs and backs, for a good rich stock. I separated and washed the pumpkin seeds and roasted them with a bit of salt (too much, I fear); I'll use them in salad. I also roasted the pumpkin- in keeping with the popular trend now of roasting rather than boiling vegetables. I have a mulching machine - what do you call it? - a long-handled motorized blade that purées vegetables for soup and sauce; a neighbour gave it to me when I started giving her invalid husband home-made soup every week. The mixture is cooling now and I have to decide whether to spike it with Siracha (sp?) or go bland and traditional with cinnamon. We'll see. I've tried a sample of each and I'm still not sure.

Well, Memories of Thanksgivings Past. They all blend into your memory bank, don't they? I think of Thornton Wilders' play The Long Christmas Dinner, a one-act play written/produced in 1931 presenting 90 years in one family, the Bayards; and of A.R. Gurney's play, The Dining Room (1982), 18 scenes from different families, with the dining furniture their common bond, a set made in 1898, and representing, to Gurney, the decline of the upper middle class, WASPS and tradition.

That's what Thanksgiving is still all about: tradition. Even this weekend, without a family to share it with this year, Matt and I will honour tradition and be thankful for our blessings.

We Wish you a happy Thanksgiving.

The second game (Blue Jays versus Texas Rangers) is on as I attempt to write this. I don't know how well I can concentrate.

NOT. Didn't. Concentrate.

WHAT A DISASTER! Jays lost to Rangers 6-4 in 14 innings, in case you didn't watch. I didn't justify my existence toady. I said as much to Matthew, who came for dinner. "Well," he said," you got groceries." Yes - via Gateway Gateway, delivered

It was Bill Wylie who turned me on to baseball. I can' t say he taught me; the commentators taught me, with their stats and lore. They (not the same people as 60 years ago, but they, nonetheless) filled in the gaps, that is, the silence between pitches and the blanks in my knowledge of the game. I had learned so much that by the World Series in 1956 (we were married in 1952), as the game progressed and the tension increased, Bill asked me if I realized what was going on and I said , "Hush! You're not supposed to talk about it. You'll jinx it." I knew that much.

That was the only perfect game (no hits, no runs, no errors) ever pitched in a World Series. Don Larsen was the pitcher and Yogi Berra was the back catcher and when the game was over Yogi Berra jumped into Don Larsen's arms - perhaps you saw the newsreel picture of it a couple of weeks ago when Yogi died.

Whether I know the teams or not I always watch the World Series, in memory of Bill, the same reason I watch the Academy Awards, every moment. Of course, it means more when you know the names of the players you want to root for.

And so, every moment today I watched and winced as the Blue Jays lost today. I fear for them.

To those of you who read my early, incomplete entry, come back. I finished it.