Food-A-Thon II

The beans are gone, blanched, packed in quart bags, and tossed in the freezer. I knocked them off yesterday afternoon.

The tomatoes, joined by more from my garden, are gone. 16 pints of cut tomatoes; seven pints of salsa (which also made a small dent on the sack of peppers we have yet to process).

I found an option for the beets. I peeled, cubed, blanched and froze them for roasting later this winter. (Note: I am not a beet eater. Nor is Warren. If the recipes flops, the rest of the beets are exiting the house midwinter.)

The zucchini has grown in number since yesterday, despite my best efforts. Sam is back for a nine day visit. Before heading to his old apartment to spend the night with his friends, he asked me for my recipe for zucchini bread, as Dylan (his former roommate) wanted to make it.

In a flash of inspiration, I sent not only the recipe and an uncut loaf I had baked a few days ago, but I also sent over one of the many zucchini currently lounging in the refrigerator.

"Tell Dylan to have fun," I said as I dropped Sam and the zucchini off.

A lot of zucchini minus one largish one should be a slightly smaller quantity, yes?

Yes, until I opened the front door this morning and found four sitting on the porch, courtesy of my parents. Well, I had said "give me all you have." (And dad did leave one of his cantaloupes, which are just ripening, so I feel better about the zucchini.)

American poet Edgar Lee Masters wrote the evocative Spoon River Anthology, in which the dead of the small rural town of Spoon River speak of their lives. One of them is Lucinda Matlock, a strong women who had lived a full life. She lectures the reader:

What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,

Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?

Degenerate sons and daughters,

Life is too strong for you--

It takes life to love Life.

I thought of Lucinda as I worked today. Canning in August is not for the fainthearted. Today is in the 90s and we are trying to go all summer without turning on our air conditioner. Canning on a day like this is like what I imagine working in a laundry must be like - hot and steamy.

Ma Ingalls canned without air conditioning. So did my grandmother Nelson and so did my mom when she was younger.

And so am I this summer. I think even Lucinda would approve.