Confessions of a (Not) Farm Wife

I had to take care of some more peaches today.  Apparently, a while back, some misguided, idealistic person thought it was a good idea to plant a peach tree.  Now it vomits barely passing excuses for peaches all over the back yard.  And that at the most inopportune times.  Because obviously, I have nothing better to do.DSC02178These are not the nice firm juicy peaches that more accommodating peach trees supply to stores.  No, they are the vile and disgusting variety.  They alternate between being rock hard and mushy, although usually both.  While standing there pitting them (up to my elbows in peach slime) I had to stop and laugh at myself because I noticed that I was making my Clint Eastwood face.  I noticed because it was starting to hurt.  If I had to do it much longer I would develop special wrinkles strictly related to home preserving.  Yesterday I was freezing some kale/basil pesto.  I had to import my husband to wash the kale for me because of the aphid eggs on the back of the leaves, that you have to pick off.  At least someone does, because I sure as hell ain’t.  Then I would inspect the washed kale and exclaim, “What do you call this?  How did you miss this entire aphid metropolis?  Are you blind?”  Marc wryly observed, “Honey, you aren’t gonna make it on a farm.  You can’t even handle lettuce.”  That’s right, that stuff’s disgusting.

DSC02185We were able to have this little adventure this morning because the children are in vacation Bible school.  The Episcopalians put on a mean show.  I think they’re sadists or something.  Most churches in Boise do pre-packaged VBS.  Where they send a mysterious third party money and a kit comes in the mail.  These people do it the old fashioned way.  We’re talking paper mache bird feeders, concrete stepping stones, tie dye shirts, rain sticks, masks, Easter eggs, exploding volcanoes, hanging planters, beaded bracelets – and it’s only day three.  Of course, the children love it.  Meanwhile, I get to reign in unrepentant produce and paint the underside of the stair treads.  Win, win.

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