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There was a time in my life (or so I delude myself) when I might have made a good farm-wife. A time when I bought bushels of produce from farm stands and stood over steaming kettles to seal jams and jellies and pickles—they brimming with harvest flavours, I beaming with pride.
Today the very thought leaves me cold. Leaves me tired, more like.
I am enamoured of Not Far from the Tree, a local group of volunteers who harvest fruits and nuts from trees whose owners can't or won't do it. The bounty is divided this way: one third to the owner of the tree, one third to food banks or soup kitchens, and one third to the volunteers, who take home their apricots and make beautiful pies to show on Twitter.
I want to join them. I want to climb, with or without a ladder, to the top of cherry trees, crabapple trees, apricot trees and fill my basket again and again with ripe fruit. Then I'll come home and make jams and chutneys and preserves.
This dream sits in one part of my mind. But the rest of my mind is more realistic: the very thought of all that harvesting and canning wears me out. My days as a farm wife—even an imaginary one—are over.
Blog1: http://www.fastandfearlesscooking.com
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