The Vegetables of My Labor

Sometimes I feel a bit like the little red hen when it comes to my garden. Among the chorus of "Not I's" is my heavy sigh as I do it myself. Usually those "Not I's" come in a different form of "too busy doing this" or "when I finish that." Even when there is a positive answer, usually an eager helper only lasts 2 of the 60 minutes I may have needed.

This year as part of my de-stressing, taking a break plan, I didn't plant a garden. Although it's a part of summer I always look forward to, when it came time to plant, I felt a "Not I" rise up in my throat. And so, my husband and children planted a little patch of garden and nothing more was ever planted. I tried to pull myself out of break mode to plant more, but every time I did, it rained. Last year I replanted several times due to the overpouring of rain, and this year I didn't have the oomph to fight it. I couldn't bring myself to even weed the small area, so this is the smallest, ugliest garden we've ever had. A small part of me is hoping everyone realizes this is what happens when Mom takes a break. But the realist in me knows that probably no one noticed, made a connection, and/or cared.

Still, when the beans came on, I was out there picking. And snappping. And cooking. And canning. My legs groaned in protest at the hours spent bent over in the rows, but my back is what really insisted that I stand up and stretch periodically. I could literally see drops of sweat dripping off my bent head onto the ground. My fingers rejoiced each time they found the last bean out of the bucket to snap. My whole body visibly sank with relief when I put up the canner for the day. And I smiled with satisfaction as I looked at the rows of filled jars that would fill my family in the cold months ahead.

There is a certain amount of pride that comes from doing things oneself, especially when it comes to caring for a family. Each time I open a jar or freezer bag of something I have carefully preserved for them, I know they are well taken care of. Whether it's something from my garden, a friend's garden, or the Amish store up the road, I can trust where that food came from and count on it to fill and nourish the bodies of those I love. It's a little old-fashioned, but it's my new way of life. Many people who knew me (including me!) would never have pegged me to become a country girl, but now I can't imagine any other way to raise a family.

A good friend who also preserves food from her garden for her family said her grandma always said it would "taste good when the snow flies." She must have known how good it feels, too.