Sunday Morning Applesauce

Four pints of applesauce from the elusive and deceptively early Transparent apples I picked last night—Mama’s favorite—quartered, cooked, processed with the Foley, and canned, ping, ping, ping, ping; garden sprinkler on; Mama walked; nine flies killed (thinking there was a hatch in the house yesterday); blueberry pancakes with warm applesauce on the table. By 9:00, just as the overcast sky began to clear on its way to today’s high of 95.

Mama came into the kitchen at 7:30 and flicked on the overhead florescents. (I hate overhead lights, and she needs them on at all times. If there is an Overhead Light Syndrome, I will surely die of it before this gig is over.) I didn’t even know she was up. So many kinds of quiet invaded.

“Ach! Out with the light!”
“I thought I would come and help,” she cheerfully said.

I had been in the kitchen since 5:45, beating the heat. It was done ‘cept for the shoutin’. And I can’t really think of any scenario in which her help would be, well, helpful. Sadly. The cheerful was nice.

I asked her if she wanted to walk up the driveway before I made breakfast. She thought it would be too cool, but she guessed she could go “just part way.” (There is always a “just a little” caveat in everything with her these days. Just a little walk, just a little lunch, just a little ice cream, just a short nap.) We went all the way to the road.

When we walked past the neighbor’s house, she said, “No one there is up!’
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“There aren’t any lights on,” she said.
“Ah,” I said.

Did I mention she has the vision of a mole? I do love it when she thinks she can do something she can’t. It’s so much nicer than her usual assumption that she can’t, she can’t, she can’t. But what goes on in her head is a mystery to me.

Breakfast eaten, kitchen cleaned up, canning equipment back to the basement, black beans and rice made for my camping trip, garbage and recycling out to the cans in the carport, garden sprinkler off, seven flies killed, house closed up against the rising temperature. 10:15.

And Smudge’s lizard kill in my apartment disposed of, tail and body disconnected—tail still writhing, body still. I know there’s a metaphor there. I’ll think about it later. Maybe on my way to camp on the OP tomorrow.

Smudge and Mama are tuckered out, but staying warm. I’m on to the next big thing. And trying to stay cool.