“I see you’ve been canning again,” my husband remarked
grimly. Just home from work, those were
the only words he uttered as he stopped short in his tracks halfway across the
kitchen floor.
And that was all. There he stood, like he was glued to the spot, with nothing else to say.
No laurels for the little woman who had spent the entire morning pickling the dills he couldn’t live without! Not a word of praise for the conscientious mother who kept his children eating healthy homemade applesauce and wholesome, unadulterated peaches, pears, and tomatoes.
No laurels for the little woman who had spent the entire morning pickling the dills he couldn’t live without! Not a word of praise for the conscientious mother who kept his children eating healthy homemade applesauce and wholesome, unadulterated peaches, pears, and tomatoes.
Not even a complimentary nod in the direction of the pantry
door, behind which stood shelf upon shelf of home-processed jams, jellies, and
juices.
I had a feeling that even if I waved our bank statement in
front of his nose like a white flag, he’d never understand how much our
grocery budget bank balance was preserved by my preserving. He'd just continue to stand there like a post,
oblivious to the hours I had spent sweating and slaving over my sterilized
Mason jars.
“Well, Honey,” I said at last, “don’t you even have a hug and
a kiss for Del Monte’s main competitor?
“Yes,” he answered with the deliberate timing that he
usually reserves for sassy kids, “I’ll get to that, if you’ll kindly pry my
feet up off the floor!”
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| How do you can tomatoes without spilling some on the floor? |
