It is an amazing process to process your own food. Growing up in the backwoods of Humboldt County, I learned how to can at my mother's elbow, and my Grandma Annie's. Two different approaches, let me tell you; undoubtedly my own application is a mixture of these two women. I do remember standing on a chair next to either one of them, leaning over the sink with the heady responsibility of holding a paring knife in one hand and picking up an apricot with the other. Grandma Annie was lenient, allowing me my mistakes and awkward arrangement of the halves in the jar. I loved putting the pit in the bottom, so the whole jar would taste better than if it were left out. Canning created an incredible mess, or so it seemed to me. Everything from me to the back door would be wet and sticky, and so hot! Of course, the fruit is ripe in the summer, and the stove, boiling pots, hot jars and all the activity made for a really hot little girl.
Maybe that's why the long walk down the hill and across the fields to the river didn't seem all that bad. Seriously, what an idyllic time of my childhood.
I never noticed before, but her head and tail seem to be synchronized: To the left. To the right. My Luna Girl. Always willing to help out in the kitchen.
She loves to be a part of conversation, the coffee ritual, the snacking ritual. The only thing she does not like, with passion, is the vacuum cleaner and the fly swatter. No. She has never been hit with it, in our house, and she came to us at eight weeks.
Happy Apricots to you!
I have guests on the way...
Oh boy oboy ohboy!
I love you.