A drop in the bucket

I picked these tubs of plums in just a few minutes yesterday, and I'm not exaggerating there were probably 10 times this many on the tree.  Many fell down and got smooshed on the ground-- they don't get ripe all at once. Some are just too high to reach, even with our hand-dandy fruit picker on a pole. Some were "stolen" in the sidewalk feeding frenzy.

Time to share the bounty.  Everyone who sees me these days gets a lunch bag of plums.  Maybe I should open the gates to the barbarian hoards?  (Well, maybe not.)

I was canning yesterday from dawn-to-dusk, which is why there wasn't a blog post written.  Eighteen pints of pitted halves in light syrup, two batches of plum chutney.  On top of that, another batch of peach/plum chutney I made last week.  The storeroom shelves are groaning with  bounty.  I'm tired now, but will be glad in January when I can grab a nicely aged chutney off the shelf for curry.

There are few things more satisfying to the natural-born housewife than seeing all those gleaming jars lined up in the winter. Men are hunters and gathers; women are genetically programmed to save food for the hard times ahead.

I still know a few women who make jam and such in small batches, but no one around here cans in bulk. No wonder! Being a farm-wife is lots of work.  But to put it in perspective, Grammy didn't have a nice gas range and a quiet kitchen with classical music playing. She cooked and canned everything on a wood stove, with a passel of kids underfoot and a thousand other chores.

This is a more recent picture of the Bucks County farm I ran across in the photo collection. Sadly, the property is no longer in the family. But of course, our memories of home will never be lost.