“Do your kids ever wish they could go to school?”

This question, most recently posed to me by a friend, is something that I often wonder myself. I mean, I happen to know the answer so I don’t actually wonder, but back when I started homeschooling I kind of assumed that the kids would go through spells of wanting to go to school and it’d be me against them and I’d have to either put my foot down and say This Is The Way It Is or I’d eventually cave and let them scamper off to join their peers.

However, they are extremely vocal about not wanting to go to school. They say things like, “I’m NEVER going to school.”

And then I think, Oh dear, I’ve totally brainwashed them!

This year, day one of real school (public school, that is, not our homeschool) found us sleeping in, eating breakfast at 9 am, and then jumping into the canner and staying there for the rest of the day. Mid afternoon I suddenly hollered, “Look at that! The bus!” (except it wasn’t the bus but I thought it was), and then I lapsed into a dreamy speech, “Do you guys realize that if you went to school this would be the first year that all of you would be out of the house? Do you know what that means? It means that I would’ve just spent the entire day in the house by myself. Alone, all by myself, doing whatever I wanted, all day long…”

Through my half-closed lids, I could see the children, each of them standing still, watching me closely, trying to comprehend what I was saying. Then my oldest tentatively, almost fearfully, asked, “Do you wish we were in school?”

I snapped my eyes open wide and said firmly, slowly, “No. I want you right here with me. I like hanging out with you guys.”

My son exhaled sharply (had he been holding his breath?) and muttered “Good.”

The moment gone, the kitchen was once again a blur of flying feet, flashing knives, and fruit.

But my heartstrings were wrung just a tiny bit because my son sounded so genuinely relieved. Like he was unsure of his place in our family, and actually believed that I might send him away—regardless of his preference—for just a few hours of coveted alone time.

I felt kind of flattered, too. My kids, social animals that they are, actually want to be here at home with boring old me. What a pleasant surprise.

It won’t always be this way, I know. Eventually they’ll be chomping at the bit to get out of this house and on with their lives. They’ll get jobs and buy cars and higher education and fall madly in love and leave me to go make their own nests. All that will happen, sure enough, but just because it will happen (and should happen, hallelujah!) doesn’t mean I have to rush it.

So I won’t. I’ll savor our mid-morning breakfasts and hodge-podge lunches with all of us crowded around the little kitchen table and these late summer nights where they run pell-mell through the yard shrieking their fool heads off.

These years are fast and furious, so saturated with both exhaustion and exhilaration that I can hardly comprehend it.

But that’s not going to keep me from trying.

This same time, years previous: chocolate malted milk frosting, nectarine cobbler, odds and ends

I want to do a post about this year’s garden stats and notes, but we’re not quite there. Tomatoes and raspberries are still coming strong, and the potatoes and grapes haven’t even happened yet. But in the meantime, before the tomatoes are all gone (boo-hoo), I gotta tell you about tomato jam because you just might want to simmer yourself up a pot for your end-of-the-summer cookouts.

This is a savory jam, not regular bread-and-butter jam. Which is what my mother was thinking it was when she sampled it. But I didn’t know she thought that, so when she squealed like I’d stuck her with a pin and spat it in the sink, I was shocked and crushed. It wasn’t until she said, in a horrified and accusatory voice, “You really eat that on toast?” that I realized we’d had just a simple misunderstanding, and quick-quickly, I explained that it’s not jam jam, but more of a relish jam, You know, like to eat on hot dogs. And then she was all like, Oh, well THEN. Give me a spoon. I want to taste it again. The second time around, she liked it, and my shaken pride was (mostly) restored.

There are all sorts of tomato jam recipes out there (and some people do eat it on biscuits), but the one I used is as straightforward as they come: tomatoes, sugar, salt, black pepper, and paprika. It makes an ample pint that stores nicely in the fridge for several weeks, at least. Or, you can can it.

To serve, mound it up real high on hot dogs and burgers (my plan for next weekend!). Both me and my man much prefer it to regular old ketchup.

Tomato Jam

Adapted from the August 2011 issue of Bon Appetit

The recipe calls for smoked paprika, of which I sadly had none—regular worked just fine.

4 pounds paste tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and chopped

1 1/4 cups sugar

1 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon black pepper

1/8 teaspoon (smoked) paprika

Stir together the tomatoes and sugar and let rest for 10 minutes. Bring the sweetened maters to a boil and cook for 15 minutes, stirring frequently. Add seasonings and continue cooking (reduce the heat, if needed) until the jam has thickened and reduced to about 2 cups. Refrigerate, or can.

This same time, years previous: basic oatmeal muffins (I’ve been making these for a year now and they are still my favorite), earthy ponderations, part three

It’s been intense and desperate, folks. Downright dire. For a few days there I felt like a little white mouse with a pink tail on a treadmill, peddling frantically but never going anywhere. But now things are slowing down. I’ve caught up in the race against ethylene oxide production and time, and the jars are filling up. I don’t have the final stats yet, but I’m pretty sure we’ve emerged victorious.

Yesterday, the kids were amazing. So often I kvetch about their bad attitudes and bickering but not yesterday. Yesterday was golden. They stuck with me all day long. In fact, the eldest was at my elbow up until 7:30 last night when he finished up a huge stack of dishes and we booted him out the door to go play.

The kids unscrewed the jar rings, chopped the peaches, nectarines, tomatoes, and peppers, peeled garlic, filled and emptied the dehydrator sheets, halved and pitted the nectarines, hung up and folded laundry, emptied trashes, washed dishes, and opened doors for me.

One of them also managed to break two glasses on two separate occasions and I managed to keep my cool. (Though the second time around I did contemplate screaming, “Forget about cleaning it up. JUST WALK ON IT.”) Silver lining? The kitchen floor stayed fairly clean.

Their helpfulness was so impressive that I called Mr. Handsome at work and told him to pick up a treat for the kids. He brought home a box of Froot Loops (with sprinkles—the newest fad), and they ate almost the entire thing for dessert whilst I showered them with lavish speeches detailing my deep and abiding appreciation.

So how about that little earthquake, yeah? I had just gotten the kids settled for rest time and was walking back out to the kitchen for my coffee when I heard a roaring sound like a logging truck driving by. But everything was rattling and shaking like when the washing machine gets unbalanced and starts wigging out. And then I thought, Oh dear, the kids are all out of bed and silently—that’s odd—jumping up and down really hard—and that’s when it hit me: EARTHQUAKE! I froze in my tracks, a Get Out of the House Right Now scream poised in the back of my throat, just waiting for permission to let loose, but then I went to the bathroom to make sure it wasn’t the washing machine (‘cause you don’t want to interrupt rest time unless it’s absolutely necessary), and it wasn’t, of course, because I wasn’t doing any laundry, and by then the shaking had stopped.

Mr. Handsome was so bummed he missed it. He talked about it all evening long. He even declared he was going to have a t-shirt made that said: “August 2011—Where were YOU when It Happened?”

When I came downstairs this morning with my hair sticking straight out on one side because I went to sleep with it wet (after three days of very little personal hygiene, I absolutely had to wash my hair even if it meant I’d be stricken with a frightful case of bedhead), Mr. Handsome was puttsing around the kitchen, a sheepish look on his face. I glanced at the calendar and then said real quick, “Happy Anniversary!” because I’m always the first to remember and he always forgets. He calmly returned the platitudes and smiled. Weird.

“Did you check the canning?” I asked, referring to the previous night’s canning that was still out on the picnic table.

“Yeah, they all sealed.”

I was fixing my coffee when I happened to glance out the window and see that the canner was belching steam. HUH? I shot a glance at my husband but he kept his eyes lowered, and then, understanding dawning like a bright new glorious day, I raced out the door and peeked into the canners: twelve quarts of nectarines, hoo-boy!

When I returned to the kitchen, he said, “Now you don’t have to do nectarines. They’re all caught up for the day.”

So of course I made him his lunch: three hotdog buns (we were out of bread and the first loaves wouldn’t get baked for another couple hours) filled with eggs, ham, and cheese, plus sides.

And then I sat down at my computer and discovered an email from myself, or rather, from my account. It read, “ Thank you for 15 years of friendship, wonderful food, 4 creative children, love, and a willingness to work thru life’s challenges with me. I love and respect you deeply. Happy Anniversary!”

So then I was left with no choice but to go give him a bear hug and get his neck a little wet with my eyes that had suddenly sprung a leak.

This same time, years previous: whole wheat buttermilk waffles, wedding memories, so why did I marry him?, Valerie’s salsa (made 5 batches of it this year!), canned tomatoes, how to make butter, earthy ponderations, part two, cold curried corn soup