My neighbor gave me a nice bunch of rhubarb the other day, and since we're going out of town this weekend, a pie seemed out of the question. I mean, no one should be eating a whole pie in two days.
So, jam it was. That meant it was time to break out the canning pot and tongs and jars and lids and all the other bulky supplies. I discovered that I must have been very tired and sick of canning last fall when I finished, because everything had made it upstairs, but never did get carried those last fifteen feet to the shelf in the storage room where it belongs.
But it's back in the kitchen now, ready to be shuffled from surface to surface for the next five to six months.
For some people, it's the smell of the outfield grass and the crack of the bat.
For me it's the steam corkscrewing my hair and the sound of the "pings" being counted down.
Summer is here.