I sat Friday night in the dining room in front of my laptop, the TV in the next room flitting among experts and speculators about what happened in Paris, while a freshly made mincemeat pie and two loaves of pumpkin bread cooled on a nearby kitchen counter. The food is for a small, early-Thanksgiving celebration later Saturday before one of our two sons leaves next week for a winter’s worth of work in Montana. Our other son spent a week in Paris this summer and remarked as he watched the death count mount that it felt strange to see such terror unfold on streets he had walked, in neighborhoods he had traversed. This is the odd part,...
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