Torque. Towles. Train.

When I’m starting to get low on gas, I like to see if I can match the speed of my car to the number of miles I supposedly have left in my tank. It’s a tiny joy that I get to experience every few weeks and all it really requires is a slight adjustment of ankle angle for every mile that remains.

I recently read Table for Two, which is a gathering of short stories by Amor Towles. Towles is a favorite of mine, and if you haven’t read A Gentleman in Moscow, you need to stop what you’re doing and get started.

You’re going to love it.

Back to Table for Two. One of the stories features a character who ruminates on Thanksgiving, and although I rarely use the word delightful, it’s Delightful. And timely! Here is an excerpt.

The intrinsic challenge of roasting a turkey has led to all manner of culinary abominations. Cooking the bird upside down, a preparation in which the skin becomes a pale, soggy mess. Spatchcocking, in which the bird is drawn and quartered like a heretic. Deep frying! (Heaven help us.) The limitations of choosing a twenty-pound turkey as the centerpiece of the Thanksgiving meal have only been compounded by the inexplicable tradition of having every member of the family contribute a dish. Relatives who should never be allowed to set foot in a kitchen are suddenly walking through your door with some sort of vegetable casserole in which the “secret ingredient” is mayonnaise. And when cousin Betsy arrives with such a mishap in hand, one can take no comfort from thoughts of the future, for once a single person politely compliments the dish, its presence at Thanksgiving will be deemed sacrosanct. Then not even the death of cousin Betsy can save you from it, because as soon as she’s in the grave, her daughter will proudly pick up the baton.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the house where I grew up and how close we lived to the train tracks. I’ve lived out of the house longer than I lived in the house, but I still occasionally wake up with a start in the middle of the night with my first thought being, “It’s just the train.” (But really, it’s just the dog or just the cat or just the guinea pig or just the owl.)

This is the house where I grew up.

It’s just the train.