I'm going to take credit for the salsa. Okay? Because you may consider
it little, my effort. The effort made to grow the tomatoes; the
constant watering and plucking of the yellowed leaves that look like
the belly of a sickened frog and the monitoring of the ripeness, which
took both several weeks and about half a second.
And then I stood in the kitchen and dumped them in boiling water and
waited for the skins to start peeling, and plunked them in iced water
that turned the same color of my great-aunt's ginger hair. Don't get me
started on the squeezing of the seeds and my obsession with collecting
every last bit of unwanted tomato gunk for the compost bin.
I know, I know, that I'm not supposed to cheat, but I did, because I
fluctuate between wanting to be that superwoman who can make her own
salsa from scratch and the lazy ass who believes that convenience is
what separates us from the primates. So yes, I bought the flavoring mix
that was manufactured with dried peppers and onions and God knows what
else. Let God know. I don't want to.
Finally, it was me, and me alone who sanitized those glass jars, and it
was me alone who waited patiently as the water bath processed the jars
of salsa so that upon eating said salsa my friends and family will not
suffer the agonizing symptoms from botulism, including
nausea, vomiting, respiratory failure and eventual death.
Because you know what? It tasted really, really good.
- - -
Read AR's "Milk."
w i g · l e a F