It’s canning season. Tom’s worn out.
When I called home yesterday to let him know I had to stop at Aldi to pick up a bag of sugar for my mom (who is in the middle of making blackberry, raspberry and cherry jams) and see if he needed anything.
Tom answered my call with, “Thank goodness, someone’s calling so I can whine. Imagine doing something you hate so much. Something you loathe and multiply that hate by about a thousand and that’s how I feel.”
I laughed and said, “You’re peeling tomatoes, aren’t you?”
He grumbled, “These romas are awful this year. They’re so tiny they’re not even worth the time it takes to blanch them and peel them.”
He went on for several minutes about the tomatoes. Poor guy. He started this process on Sunday with the peppers. He spent three hours with ice packs on his hands after chopping jalapenos that evening.
Monday had him chopping onions and Tuesday brought the aromatic crushing of garlic. That left the tomatoes for Wednesday. He started working on them at 7:10 that morning. I called him at 4:30. He was in his own little tomato hell.
By the time the girls and I got home at 5:30, Tom was peeling the last tomato. This meant that all that was left was the mixing of the ingredients and then the canning process.
He’s such a trooper. And I mean that totally unsarcastically. I’m just glad he’s willing to do this kind of thing because we do so enjoy the green beans and salsa all through the winter that he puts up in late July and early August.
I was greeted by many quarts (maybe 28?) of salsa this morning. He’d labeled some of them Mom and others Dad. The hotter salsa got the Dad label. He looks out for me. I do hope he knows how much I appreciate all the work he puts into our family. He’s pretty awesome.
The next batch? I might try and muster up the enthusiasm to crush some garlic for him. It’s the very least I can do.