Like a farm wife

Every year as the light starts to glow curiously fall on the fence posts, the tall golden grass and the mountains in the distance, I engage in ritual. It doesn’t start with my hands in front of my heart or my eyes closed in meditation. It doesn’t look like neatly folding and putting away one season while cracking wide the next so much as it looks like one big mess in my kitchen. This ritual is characterized by boxes of ripe fruit all over the floor, canning jars on every counter surface and walls sticky with hot peach, apple and cherryness.

This is the time of year that I leave my austere tendencies behind and let lids, bands, ladles and fruit overtake every spot in our big farm kitchen. I hoard in ways I never thought I would. It’s pathological, really, and I don’t care. <Read More>