Today the applesauce gets canned. I carried up a crate of pint jars and washed the dirty dishes so I'll have a clear area to work in. As soon as the dishes air dry (I hate to dry dishes) I'll wash all the jars and get lids and rings ready while the first batch heats up so I can add a bit of sugar, ladle it into jars, and then send it through the hot water bath. I expect to be entertained by the bell-like sounds of sealing lids protecting my yummy sauce this afternoon. I hear Durwood in the kitchen playing with his Super Sucker, or whatever that food preservation doodad is called, sucking the air out of packages of... bacon maybe. Soon it'll be my turn to work in our tiny kitchen and the tantalizing aroma of homemade applesauce will permeate the house.
November 16--Majorca. In the early morning mist the trunks of the olive trees in the grove looked like the tortured souls of the long-dead. Natalie walked along the rutted track, her footsteps muffled by the dust as fine as talc. The braying of a lovesick donkey under her window had awakened her an hour ago. Unable to go back to sleep she had dressed and slipped quietly out of the guesthouse to walk across the centuries old olive grove to meet the rising sun. The sky atop the hill had lightened to a pale yellow when the silent shape of an owl swooped past. There was the surprised squeak of a mouse caught unawares and then the great bird flew with its breakfast to one of the oldest trees. She saw the owl land on a branch and then melt into the shadows as the sliver of sun rose above the horizon sending golden shafts of light out like rockets to awaken the world.
Man, I'd love to see a shaft of sunlight right now. The gray days are starting to pile up.
--Barbara
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