There are previous manifestations of my life recalled with fondness and a sad wishfulness to return. I miss being a homemaker. It was a good moment in time. This photo of chokecherries amidst frost transformed leaves reminded me of then.
‘Then’ was stewing tomatos, skins split with heat, acid scented steam rising, clinging to window panes as droplets swelling pregnant to burst in transparent rivulets coursing down to pool on dusty sills. The tomatos became the the starting point for pasta sauces, chili con carne, soups and stews. Harvest preserving gave way to Christmas baking, concoctions with butter, sugar, cherries and almonds. Potatos emerged from the root cellar, moisture content reduced in the cool darkess, perfect for perogies and potato pancakes.
Evenings were spent knitting, stitching, creating, reading and dreaming. Learning math and geography and history all over again at the diningroom table with boys yearning to be young men.
‘Then’ were days of planning and planting, growing and gathering, sewing and simmering. The day’s effort could be measured in a glance, rows of jars on the counter, the glass clear cookie jar filled to the brim, cross-stitch framed on the walls. Those were the days.