ping…ping…ping
I forgot what a wonderful sound that soft ping was. It takes me back to my childhood and my mother’s smile when she heard it.
Fast forward forty years. I spent the weekend canning – for the first time. I heard ten pings and I have ten jars of grape juice and jelly on my counter, jars of incredible jewel-like beauty.
I.do.not.want.to.see.another.grape.again. Sore feet, aching back. Everything smells and tastes of concentrated Concord grapes. And I have ten more pounds of grapes waiting to be processed.
Besides reading three cookbooks before I started, I called my mother for her advice. She said, “Throw the grapes away.” What??? This is the problem with living 12 hours from Mom. I can’t confirm my suspicion that a heartless fiend from the disposable society possessed her mind. This is not the mother who smiled at the lovely pings of sealed jars. This is not the mother who herded her five kids into the garden for endless picking of peas, beans, corn and then spent all evening and into the night processing the produce. I suspect this is the perfectly groomed mother who picks up a jar of grape jelly at Walmart Superstore for 79 cents and then runs off for lunch with her Red Hat Society.
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