I don't know what to eat. Or if I should eat. I mean, I worked all summer slaving to put up food for the winter, but now... Should I eat it? It's funny, really. There's a light blanket of snow on the ground. It's 27 degrees right now and even colder with the wind chill. Still... Is it time?
I haven't made a pie with all the peaches that almost brought me to tears, there were so many.
Not a single muffin has been made with the tens of pounds of blueberries picked by hand by my boys.
Carrots are frozen, waiting for soup and stew.
Pickles have been canned in their tangy bread and butter brine, but they sit on a shelf in my basement gathering dust.
Row after row of crushed tomatoes are soldiered together on the shelf below, waiting to weather the lasagna brigade sure to come.
Save for a few cupfuls of corn tossed into the soup I made on Sunday and the single can of blueberry cherry sauce I cracked open to serve with crepes during a brunch I was hosting, I haven't touched a thing.
What is wrong with me? Am I hoarding food? Squirreling it away like the furry critters still racing around my backyard furiously trying to hide just one more nut?
I think it's knowing all of that hard work, the precious hours, the late nights and the memory of the farmer's markets will be gone in an instant. I like looking at the rows of shiny jars, the perfectly stacked freezer storage bags labeled so neatly in my deep freezer and the funny root cellar contraption I cobbled together in my garage holding my boxed apples, potatoes and onions. I feel well stocked, ready and prepared.
So, what now? Is it time? When do we eat?
1 week ago