Taste of Summer

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Father's day is coming up. But at the moment, I am busy thinking about mothers. Last night I was doing the dishes. The only good thing about dirty dishes is that if you are at a party and feeling awkward or bored, they are always available to distract you and earn the gratitude of your hostess. Otherwise, I hate doing dishes because it is a never ending task. I do them every morning and every evening. And they are usually icky! What I wouldn't give to have a dishwasher in my apartment, especially when I have dinner parties!

As I was lamenting my dishwater hands, I started thinking about the women I grew up with. We used to have some pretty good arguments over who was going to do what when it came to cleaning up the kitchen after dinner. My brother managed to always flee the table without having to do much. My dad, a terribly slow eater, would still be working on his last bits of food and my sisters and I would be exchanging bitter asides about how "I always have to do dishes." "Well, I set and cleared the table. So it's up to you to do dishes!" Slam! Bam! The pots, pans, and cabinet doors went as the tempers flared. And dad just sat quietly, chomping away. Then, when things would reach a pitch, he'd look up and say in his baritone voice, "Here, here. That will be enough," and go back to cleaning his plate. We'd retreat to our tasks, shooting each other dirty looks.

My mother hated cooking after doing it for 50 some years, but she still enjoyed canning when the fruit trees were abundant. She still does upon occasion. Spring and summer meant apricots and peaches. It was when the window screens came off and the windows were washed, the doilies were washed, starched, stretched and dried in the hot sun, and the patio was hosed down. This comes to mind because we in Monterey are having a heat wave for a change, and it actually feels like summer!

These jars, however, are not my mother's, but my host mother's in France. She, unlike my mother, loves to cook and spends all day in her kitchen without complaint. That is her kingdom and don't even think of trying to help. She will shoo you out before you can pick up a plate! That is my kind of woman!