My first-born son and I have had pleasant conversations about “enough” for quite a few months. But yesterday I shot all the verbal ammo a farm girl raised in the fifties could muster against the idea of home canning. I have distinct sensory memories of hot summer days in a kitchen made hotter by processing tomatoes: arms discolored to the elbows by the juice, little seeds and curls of vegetable skin stuck to flat and vertical surfaces, and the cloying smell of anything in too great of quantity.
He countered that he would only want to put up a dozen or so jars. That would be enough for his pantry. I was silenced.
Today I darned holes in wool sweaters, thrift shop finds for this son’s winter days. I learned to repair clothing as a child, more of frugal farm life. It gave me great pleasure to stitch the tiny holes up to make a slightly worn garment very serviceable. The stitches set my mind free to roam. I saw 12 jars in a pantry. Enough tomatoes. Enough stitches.