Wednesday, June 1, 2011

The Pickle Years

I remember the pickle years. There were only a few of them. I was a small girl.


Pony tailed, kool-aid mustached, mosquito bitten, dirty heeled, stubbed toed.

Crowded, in the way, too many questions, not a help.

Watcher. Budding observer.

Sweaty mommy. Her harvest. Hurry. Cucumbers. Dill.

Jars. Pots. Steam. Smell. Pop.


We've joined a CSA this summer. I wanted to do it for years. We're sharing a share with another family. Our first pick up date is Thursday. Thinking about green and growing things reminded me of the backyard garden of my childhood, vine warmed tomatos, REAL baby carrots, cut chunks of peppers spread out on cookie sheets in the freezer, masking tape date labels...

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