Thanksgiving marks the end of one season and the beginning of another, but this year there is a distinct sense of procrastination about it all. Suddenly we are in no real hurry for winter with its hard freeze and slate-colored sea roughed up by whitecaps.

Nature agrees, and on the Vineyard autumn lingers like two lovers over coffee; no need to rush to the next appointment on the calendar. Lawns are still green, herb gardens redolent with rosemary. Nantucket Sound is navy blue and the salt ponds lie still in the evening hush with a thousand stars splashed overhead.

But now Thanksgiving has come and gone and still on Sunday the kitchen is strewn with leftovers: turkey for sandwiches and later soup, mashed potatoes and stuffing for a late-afternoon snack but first and foremost that stalwart best among New England traditions — pie for breakfast.