“Don’t you ever just sit down and take it easy?” my next-door neighbor asks. I have just come with the Mother of All Colanders to load up with some freshly-washed grapes from the wheelbarrow that’s in his front yard. (We still can’t use our water for foodstuffs, so I am still schlepping back and forth to use his hose.)
“I don’t know of any parent of a young kid who just sits down,” I reply, hoping to divert him. This is my umpteenth trip with the colander: it’s Sunday, and we’re juicing the grapes.
I look at my stained fingers typing this. Every night has been devoted to filling up the larder, whether I am jam-making or saucing tomatoes or roasting eggplant or making vegetable stock. Call me a masochist, but frankly, I’m simply more of a glutton. There is something really–and excuse me for dipping into the woo-woo–centering about all this. I don’t know. It’s a purposeful way of being.
And it’s a way of being that doesn’t allow for much rest, at least at this time of year!