Storing Up the Fruits of the Earth

The morning after we got back from our trip to Mayo,  I walked into the garden and picked...

54 tomatoes.

I love tomatoes, but even I cannot eat 54 before they start going bad.

Milk prices have dropped, hence the milk jug! 

Some went to my friend, Tonya. Some went to my stepson, David, who came over yesterday to help Warren move machinery and stayed for supper. Some went into the fresh salsa I made for said supper. But there were still a lot of tomatoes left.

A. Lot.

As gardens turn bountiful, I have been laying up the fruits of the earth. I no longer can, but I freeze produce. The zucchinis from Dad's garden, the pesto I made from our basil, the tomatoes I just picked, the watermelon I bought (99¢ at Aldi—how could I not buy it?), the strawberries from the same source: I spent last evening and this morning cleaning and cutting and bagging and trotting up and down the basement steps.

I was recently (two weeks ago, but who's counting?) diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes, which runs heavily in my family. My family physician and I knew it has been lurking on the horizon; a second A1C confirmed it. When she and I talked about managing the disease, and talked about my diet, I told her I knew where my weak points are. "Carbs and dessert, Pat, carbs and dessert."

And indeed, those are going to be my hot buttons as I remake my diet and remake my lifestyle. Hence the freezer. Warren doesn't eat watermelon. Or fresh tomatoes. I can eat them, but in limited quantities at any one time. So into the freezer the diced watermelon went (to be bagged later):

The same with the tomatoes. Those stacked quart bags cooling their heels will reappear this winter on a homemade pizza:

There are more tomatoes ripening as I speak. We have just started sweet corn season. There will be more food preparation sessions, and those freezer shelves will fill.

My grandmother Nelson, food influence that she was in my life, grew up in Appalachian Kentucky in the early part of this century, without electricity or running water in her early years (and indeed some of her adult years: the farm she and my grandfather had when I was a child had lights, but no running water). Food was a valuable resource and not to be wasted, even without modern conveniences. She was a prodigious gardener and canned everything she could get her hands on. In her later years, when canning became harder, she turned to the freezer. After her death, my parents threw out bags of frozen food that had been in that freezer for eight or ten years, as well as canned  goods that had been on the shelf even longer.

I thought of my grandmother as I chopped and diced and bagged. We were not close; she was not close to anyone. But I think even she would give me a nod of approval and a measured out smile for my efforts.