Preservation

Lately the cute guy shakes his head on the way to bed leaving me in the kitchen with my camera, laptop or a sink full of dirty dishes. More times than not, all three. He has quit reminding me I have to get up in the morning. But Blue Bottle Coffee, my Eat Local Challenge exemption, has been saving my days and I could stay up all night playing with my local food.

Tonight I popped raspberries into the freezer that I bought from Rose at the Ferry Building Tuesday market. As I placed each raspberry finger-puppet side down on a cookie sheet I thought of her. She's like chicken soup with an apron. Her smiles are an anyday remedy and I want to fill the freezer with them. Staying up late is a small price.

Then there is a bag of gifted green apples that were left at my door today by my friend, the Renaissance Woman, which I photographed as soon I walked in. I will encourage them into applesauce tonight adding Ella Bella blackberries that I also picked up at the Tuesday market. The sauce will be friendship in a pot and I want to celebrate every bite.

My Auntie does the same thing with her garden. "The bitch red rhododendron was from Dolores's yard," she'll say. "The azalea from when Mother died. You gave us the tulip bulbs." Her garden is a living narrative. Like my kitchen has become.

There are jalapenos from J.Pine, a neighborhood rebel legend; a melon from the woman with the artisan (I love that word) honey; strawberries from Tomales. "Religion," the Takeout Queen calls them.

Harvest time will be over soon and I'll cut back on the coffee, but in the meantime I have stories to digest and narrative to preserve.