Canning: Why Our Food is a Memory Of What We Can Expect to Be

And some frozen day in February when I don't believe summer ever existed, that Nora and I ever ran wild and barefoot for 3 months while the tops of our feet turned brown and the bottoms grew calloused enough to withstand the mown weeds under the mulberry tree, that the green world ever grew into some glorious maze of sweat and reward that would remind us of what a work accomplished in us would reveal in its bloom and fruit, when I doubt I will ever see the sun again, I will open one of these jars and I will see what my heart was dreaming on this day in August:  letting go and giving in and taking in and loving even in the spaces I'm afraid of loving for one reason or another.  And it had better be so hot that I break into a sweat, and this too will remind me of July when the tomatoes finally appeared and it was one million degrees outside.  Let what we eat be what we know and love.  I understand now that gardening isn't about making food, but I don't want to say in words what it is either because that was a moment I had leaning back on my knees, hands resting palm up on my lap after pulling the last of the yellowing leaves from the base of the tomato plants and the sky was mottled with clouds and silver and peace.