they were put there by a man, in a factory dowwwwwwnnntowwwwwwnnnn…
What have we learned?
Well, firstly – and I say this with the deep and abiding in your soul kind of knowledge that only experience gives – peeling peaches sucks.
One Sunday, caught up in the frenzy of various the peaches are ripe now! now! NOW! Facebook posts, I went to a local farm and bought forty pounds of peaches.
Let’s back up a bit. I have never canned anything in my life before this summer. Because botulism. My total canning experience prior to this peach buying incident, was Strawberry Jam, affectionately known in my house as Failure Jam.
Six half-pints of Failure Jam and the purchase of 4 books on canning, led me, somehow, to confidently buy 40 pounds of peaches on a whim.
It just occurred to me that this whole story pretty much sums up my entire personality.
In any event, after spreading all the peaches out on the table to ripen, and I went to the store to buy canning jars. While I was at the store, doubt crept in. Jim caught me glumly surveying the table full of peaches.
“what’s the matter?”
“Well, you know I had to go to the grocery store to buy canning jars for the peaches. And you know what ELSE they have at the grocery store? CANNED PEACHES.”
He patted me pityingly and went to work.
Peeling and slicing
eight million one hundred and thirteen peaches was a big job. Three-quarters of the way through, I was over trying to beat Dole at their game, and I turned the last batch into Salted Brown Sugar Peach Jam, except not really jam because I am over making jam and prefer making syrupy preserve-y things that we can pour over pancakes or add to yogurt or pour over ice cream. Or pancakes. Or ice cream.
Those little jars made me happier than the sliced peaches for some reason, and I was trying to figure out why. Somehow making food from scratch seems like part of a simple lifestyle, but turning my kitchen into a giant sticky mess is NOT, in fact, simpler than say, BUYING A JAR OF FREAKING PEACHES. But I can’t just go out and buy peaches in brown sugar, or handpicked blackberries in syrup, or even Failure Jam, and seeing those little jeweled jars lined up makes me clap my hands in happiness.
I do a fair amount of rolling my eyes at all these endeavors, too, though, because none of this is simple, and certainly not simpler than nuking a chicken nugget. But a chicken nugget just isn’t as…satisfying, is it?
Perhaps a Simple Year isn’t the only thing I crave.