I know I waited for you all summer and I know I complained last season because you were so damn slow and I wanted you so badly and I know in January I do nothing but lament the fact that I have none of your T for my B and my L, but now, with chapped hands and the smell of simmering sauce still in my hair, I say to you:
This weekend, the forecast called for a hard freeze and that meant the pressure was on to finish up a few key tasks on the farm. Namely, tomatoes and tomatillos in the high tunnel and chickpeas in the field.
|Let me tell you, Willa is a big fan of the tomatillos.|
After 8 hours (and a 4 a.m. wake up), this is what I had to show for my toiling and boiling.
As I've written about before, I'm more of a blanch-and-freeze kind of girl (although I've recently been turned on to dehydrating and I think I'm hooked). Every year, I vow not to can tomatoes. But, I somehow convince myself to try one more time. And again, I am reminded of why I'd rather not, thank you very much.
Tomatoes are why God created dehydrators. And the "canned vegetables" aisle at the grocery store.
After my morning, I needed sun and dirt and so I just barely made it to the farm in time for one last round with Jacob on the old Massey 510 -- the machine my grandmother bought in the 70s and the combine I rode around, and around, and around, in as a kid with my Dad.
Dad came out to help and waved at me, laughing, while I drove the combine into the yard. "Now, that's a sight," he said.
I really love the combine. There's something about the whir and the belts and threshing and the chaff and the motion. I just dig it.
So does this guy.
Isn't it funny, how a life you never imagined can turn out to be so perfect.