Thursday, August 21, 2014
It is August.
And I'm my own worse enemy.
The time of year that the garden goes crazy. I could spend all my waking hours picking, shelling, peeling, slicing, dicing, freezing, and canning. It is preservation mania. It is craziness.
Do I think that I live in a country where the only food I will have to eat in February is what I grew and preserved with my own hands? I tried to be realistic this year and plant a smaller garden and make fewer goals. I wanted to enjoy this summer with a baby.
But it must be something about August air. The fresh colors of tomatoes, peppers, peaches, and corn make the mind whirl with possibilities. Suddenly I'm looking up new recipes for relish, chutney, jam, and salsa.
I don't need to make my own pizza sauce. But I want to. I know how. I enjoy it. We love it. I know what is in it. I don't want to buy it. I want to make it myself. And it isn't hard. Just time consuming.
And time is what August lacks.
And the almost funny thing is all the ladies who write to me who wish they could do these things. They wish they had mothers who taught them how to garden and can. Since they don't know how- they feel deprived. Maybe they should be glad for what they don't know.
I am grateful that my mother taught me to garden and preserve food. And to love it. But...
I was grocery shopping yesterday and listened to myself as I walked down the aisle. "I don't need bagels. I can make my own. I don't need tortillas. I can make my own. I should try making my own peanut butter. I have a recipe for homemade mayonnaise that I should try making sometime. I have tomatoes so I should make my own ketchup." And on and on.
It is ridiculous.
Ridiculous that I think these thoughts. Ridiculous that I (sometimes) listen.
No wonder I don't like shopping. It is not just finding the best deal and corralling children. It is silencing the voice that would like to attempt to turn me into Wonder Woman. Or threaten guilt.
It is August.