There is something soothing about canning/preserving food that you have grown yourself. I’m five quarts into pickled zucchini and two of beets – my tomatoes are all blighting, so I’m picking them green and canning them as is. The exterminator just left and was stammering a bit as he explained the bill. I was wondering why he was nervous when I did a self-check on the environment in which he stood. To my left was the interior components of a remote helicopter that Laura bought me which I have crashed repeatedly and am attempting to put back together. My hands are hopelessly stained with beet juice, leaving them a bloody red, reminiscent of an Egyptian princess, if such a person were six feet tall and weighed, well, way too much. And had a beard. I am holding a 10-inch chef’s knife, with a sharpening steel on a dishtowel to my right. My canning pot is clicking merrily behind me and Axl is watching the poor guy intently as Laura pounds away on her keyboard in the background….I guess I’d be nervous too. Our road is completely washed out from the storms and a cement mixer is in a our yard, along with about three tons of stone for an outdoor kitchen that I will someday make. He informs me that they will bill me by mail, and this is the last time that I will see him.
I wave goodbye from our porch, just in time to see Stubbs snag a mouse from the road drain. Maybe we are a bit scary.