The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come

Much of the work I do in summer feels like present-making for my winter self.

When I open my spice cabinet in December I’ll be greeted by jars of rosemary, basil, and oregano hung to dry in the heat of a summer kitchen. In my freezer I’ll find bag after bag of strawberries, corn, blueberries, peppers, and peaches, plucked in sun, shucked and peeled and chopped in shade.

A bucket of honey will pour forth sunshine with the flip of a switch.

Garlic and onions cured in warmth will shed the final bits of dirt from their roots on my counters. Shelves in my gloomy basement will hold bright jars of apricots, pickles, peaches, pears, and tomatoes, products of billowy steam and sticky pots.

I never question the value of this work. It feeds me body and soul.


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