The apartment was full of relatives, many of them distant. We were all preparing to go on a trip, a kind of elaborate picnic. S. had been cooking for it. Towering dishes were now arrayed on the counters, waiting to be packed away. One pasta dish was piled high in what appeared to be a flowerpot. I emerged from the bedroom in my robe, sheepish at having overslept, eager to lend a hand.