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While many Americans warmed up their engines in the dark this morning - in search of bargains and shopping nirvana - and I turned off my alarm clock, my household at rest. My kids, camping in our spare room. Greg, not on the road. I never have understood Black Friday. I hosted my first Thanksgiving yesterday; the bird was fine, the company finer. Everything seemed as it should, well, except for my pie. I tried my hand at Nora 's Shoo-Fly Pie featured recently at BeanPlate , but all my crumbs settled deep into the goo - why, crumbs, why - dashing any hopes I had at resurrecting the dead and solving murders in whimical clothes. ( All my hopes have been dashed. Drat !) A pie-maker I am not. Not yet anyway. But I think I'll savor the moments with Zack in the kitchen, sprinkling those disobedient crumbs; Lexi listening to the radio and performing surgeries on sickly stuffed creatures along side us. These will remain. No sale or show can compete with these short hours before time

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