Maybe it's a little TMI for some of you, but lately the instant the offspring hit their respective pillows, DH and I have been really steaming the place up. We've been going at it for hours, then finally collapsing into bed, utterly exhausted and drenched with sweat. I don't mean to gloat, but we've been doing this every night for weeks! It's like an obsession! It's the best it's ever been!
Yep, we just can't get enough of canning season.
We've canned pickles, tomatoes, corn, fruit, jelly, and so incredibly much jam that nearby bread products have begun to orbit our house. I have to launch the kids out the door in rigorously-orchestrated trajectories to reduce their risk of collision with items in the debris field (a stale baguette to the head can be life-threatening, you know). Fortunately, I'm about as handy with a calculator as I am with a pair of jar-lifting tongs, so multiple unmanned spacekids have traversed it without incident.
Haven't figured out how to keep them from coming back, yet, but I've got a call in to NASA. I'll let you in on any handy hints they provide.
I used to know this fellow who saved money by only ever carrying large bills in his wallet. He just couldn't bring himself to break a fifty. Now, I do not have this problem - sometimes I even break several at once! - but I do have a problem cracking into my precious jars of homemade preserved goods. They represent countless hours of planting, weeding, watering, peeling, chopping, and general slaving over cauldrons of boiling water.
Plus, they're just so darn pretty. And if I eat them now, I won't get to artfully arrange a few on the counter whenever someone drops by so they can properly admire my inner earth-mother/pioneer spirit/Martha Stewart/latent psychopath made flesh.
Ah, jewel-toned jars of potential admiration. That's what it's all about.
But don't tell DH, he actually thinks we're going to eat the stuff.
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