I spent the afternoon canning tomatoes with a friend. We bought the tomatoes--I didn't plant anything but cherries this year, and her big ones haven't done well in all our wet weather--and packed something like 30 or 40 pounds into jars as our hubbies corralled our small fry.
It may be because Sweet Husband and I had a date last night. (We were out until the shockingly late hour of 11 p.m.) And it may be because I like sampling different kinds of cocktails too much to stick to drinking one thing all evening, like sane people do.
But goodness, by the time we were finished, I was wiped out. As we were driving home--with two napping children in the backseat--I couldn't help but send a mental "Way to go!" back in time to all the women who packed away jars of summer produce as a necessity rather than as a fun excuse for a get together.
We ended up with a dozen pints apiece. Not nearly enough to see to our actual tomato needs through the winter--how nice that we have a grocery store for that--but probably just enough to meet my spiritual need to be able to open the memory of a hot, muggy August afternoon in the middle of January.
Which is worth an early bedtime for me tonight. (As if I really even need the excuse!)