He’s a peach

“If I get a deal on a couple of flats of peaches, could you put some up?” Couponman, action hero of the recession, asked me the other morning.  Morning was the keyword.  I don’t do mornings well, preferably not at all. 

“I could if I wanted to,” I answered back. 

“Okay, now for the $64,000 question,” he asked, my glare tipping him off, “do you want to?”

I answered his question with a question.  “Are you really that fond of sleeping on the couch?”

But as often happens, drab morning light gives way to afternoon, and I found myself contemplating canning peaches. 

I thought I had outgrown homemaking skills when my youngest left the nest.  That’s the penalty I guess for not discarding relics, like the old dented canner.  What was that saying — if you haven’t used it in three years…

I cozied up to the kitchen counter.  Memories of giving birth to my youngest son flooded my brain with pickle nightmares.  You’re probably wondering how I got so swiftly from peaches to giving birth to pickles.  Well, when I was young, single-mom poor, and overzealous, I dug up my 150’ deep backyard shovel by shovel and planted every fruit and vegetable known to Adam (from the Garden of Eden fame).  Even eggplant, though I still haven’t figured out its purpose.

I’d divorced my husband during my last pregnancy.  The cucumbers ripened overnight during my stay in the hospital.  The vines shouted “Pickles,” as I walked through the door carrying my newborn.  That very night I pulled up a stool to the kitchen counter and canned pickles through the evening news continuing well past the late news.  Later I threw the dill pickles out.  They were too salty.  My guess, postpartum teardrops dripped in the jars during the canning process.

Since this prolific garden, I live in fear of giant fruits and vegetables.  One zucchini, left too long in the field, had measured the size of the tattooed arm of a large guy at the gym.  I’d placed it on the floor while I fixed the evening meal.  With pot in hand, I answered the phone.  “There’s a loose python in the neighborhood,” whispered my neighbor, Margaret Busybody.  “It’s large and green.”  I wondered why she whispered.  Could snakes understand English?  This was not exactly neighborhood espionage.

“Do they make noise before they attack?” I asked her, quivering from fright.  “Can they crawl up the drain system?”

As I hung up the phone, I caught a glimpse of IT.  Long, large, round and green.  I let out a scream, in my most melodious tone, similar to the one my neighbors recognized when I watched Jurassic Park in the movie theater — and they were at home.  My first instinct had been to escape.  But then I remembered my responsibility…I was a mom.  After all, how fast could a man-eating ZUCCHINI run?

Scary.  Do you think my husband could have got his flats from James with the Giant Peach?

Years ago I had canned peaches.  I saved the delicious fruit for special occasions.  Until I saved them for so long that the jars fogged up and I had to toss them.

Today’s my favorite uncle’s birthday.  Probably favorite because we’re not actually blood related.  I’ll take Uncle Bob a jar of peaches.  He is a special occasion.

Related posts:

1. The cook left
2. Sewing on Sunday
3. A fruit falls from the tree
4. My dad wore shorts