However much I enjoy this- which is a LOT- this bountiful harvest can be a pain in the ass. The darling tiny cherry tomatoes are a darling endless chore, fruiting way high back in the vines where it's easy to see em- and hard to pick. Bringing loaded baskets into the house means having loaded baskets in the house to deal with- washing, freezing, cooking- the only ones that're easy are the olives, which I'm just covering with salt.
Gramma Mable, my Father's mother, set up a kitchen where they spent the summers camping out- and she'd can the wild fruits. While I long to just go to Safeway and pick up some potaoes & greens, I feel like a traitor to myself when I do it- the rhythm of the hands in the earth, the rising growth, is like midwifing our food, and, in turn, midwifing my independence from The Man, midwifing connection with a deeper reality than TV news and shiny supermarket sustenance. Pain in the ass is even a welcome facet of the process- and I have a lot more sympathy for the hard-working squirrels.
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