My Food Story is. . .
"Forty tomatoes out there. At least," my dad said.
My eyebrows perked. My stomach sank. "I have to can this weekend?"
"You don't have to work this weekend do you?"
"Yes," I nodded. "I do."
"Do you want me to give them away? Give you a reprieve?"
I did. I wanted not to care. I wanted saving this food not to matter for all the reasons it had when I changed food habits years ago. I sighed. Pouted a bit to myself.
"They really are pretty," he continued.
"It doesn't matter. They're just going in the food processer."
"The neighbor wants a few to eat. Should I give her 6 or 8? Would it make things easier?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Here, I'll have one right now."
"It doesn't matter."
Except, of course, it does. I live on stolen acres that support one person growing old. The green people assume is pretty is as chemical fed as their lawn. I cook in a handed down kitchen by ghosts. Some fed men. Others fed themselves. Once upon a time, before I knew how to can, I made tomato sauce to freeze.
"This tastes just like something your mother would make."
Food was her/is my revolutionary dream.
Blog posts that tell my food story:
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