Full steam ahead. It’s harvest time. And time to can and freeze as much as possible, a hot process in steamy late summer. My husband doesn’t remember that I canned peaches last year, he says, although I have the pictures to prove it--and memories of pleasant winter breakfasts of peaches on oatmeal when he--oblivious, I guess--had toast. This year, we make it a team effort. Although, to be honest, right now, I'm not playing. I’m on my laptop, and he’s peeling peaches at the sink. We have a small kitchen, poorly designed. If I get in his way in the crowded space he sighs in annoyance so… fine… peel away. Have fun. We’ve bumped elbows enough, and he is too precise for me, and I’m too loose for him. “Why don’t you do such and such?” he asks me. “Because this way works fine,” I reply. He times things. I don't. He measures. I don't. He doesn't cut corners. I do. this is an exaggeration, but you get the point. He sighs. Exasperated. “I don’t know why you insist upon doing thin...
Life is a series of snapshots meant to be recorded in words. A writer and photographer shares hers.