The soil keeps giving back and tomatoes flood every counter of my kitchen. Each morning, when I walk Bonnie around the house, we visit the garden. My shirt becomes a basket—I hold up the hem, filled to the brim with romas, with one hand and maneuver the leash with the other.
Life doesn’t stop to wait for the harvest, not in this suburban household. So I must figure out ways to preserve and can in between all the busy-ness of getting ready for a new school year, sending Teddy off to college, extra hours at work, and fading daylight.
Summer is singing its last songs. In the evenings, when Jeff and I do our porch sit, the fireflies dwindle in number. Last night, as we sat in the fading light, hundreds of Starlings flocked to a nearby Poplar tree. When they flew overhead, I heard the sound of the wind rushing under their wings, and I forgave them for robbing my feeders on so many days.
Yesterday, as I stood at the sink washing tomatoes, I thought about my grandmother again. Did she ever wish she only had herself to worry about? Did thoughts of her nine children weigh heavy each moment? I weigh worry against love right there at my kitchen sink and love wins every time. How empty life would be if I only had myself to think of.
We must not wish these moments away. So I roast tomatoes, peel garlic, sauté the onions and put it all together. Then I can all that goodness and put it away to be enjoyed in the cold months.
A memory of summer.
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