A Woman's Work...

You know the old adage, "A woman's work is never done?"

I certainly felt like that 10 years ago, when my four kids were all under 10 years-old. My husband has always traveled for his job, sometimes as much as 30-40 percent of the time. Back then, the days could be long and the weeks could be grueling.
It's true, however, that the days go slowly, but the years go quickly.

Lately, though, as I've been trying to do more and more of the cooking from scratch, baking our breads regularly, growing a garden, freezing and canning produce, even traveling to nearby towns to pick up produce, I've caught a glimpse of what days gone by might have been like.
Just a glimpse, mind you.

I have no animals to milk (though I've been dreaming of goats).
No, not literally.
I'm not that weird.

So, I've been thinking about having goats in the future, when we have a small acreage. Then I'd be regularly milking and making cheese.


(I know this isn't a goat. It's a cow. I couldn't find an old picture of a woman milking a goat, OK?)

I've also been thinking of even larger gardens, orchards, a pressure canner, a clothes line, actually ironing my clothes when they need it, composting, vermicomposting, keeping the house relatively presentable, adding a puppy, the arrival of our chickens and more.

And I can't help but wonder how women did it all a hundred years ago. Of course, kids probably worked more at home than mine do, and I'm sure they didn't ever have a choice. And probably not a lot of husbands would pitch in with the housecleaning and dishwashing, as mine does.

But, gee, I'm not even spinning wool into yarn or making my own clothes out of calico!

And you know what?

I often feel a little panicky and overwhelmed right now. I worry about the tomatoes sitting on the window ledge and the bag of kale in the refrigerator.

What about all the berries from my CSA?

Their presence haunts my sleepless nights.

Well, they would haunt my sleepless nights, except I've been so tired that I've been sleeping better than I have in years.

So, the berries weigh on my mind.

Do I freeze them? Make more jam? How about a pie?

And yet, I'm planning on buying a bushel of sweet corn to freeze. And a guy at work that my husband knows has peaches.

Lots and lots of peaches.

I just can't help myself.

Years ago, in fact, the summer Michael and I got married, we decided to can peaches. I was in the first throes of domestic bliss and was riding high on a wave of mason jars and Sure Jel. We arrived at the orchard and I was simply intoxicated by the peaches. The sheer number of ripe, juicy little globes of heaven.

And they all were just waiting for me to preserve them.

I bought two bushels of peaches that day.

Yes, that's right. Two bushels.

I was worried I wouldn't have enough.

For the two of us.

Well into my second day of scalding peach skins and stuffing jars, I realized something.

My grandmother, the one who was born in the 1880s and reared four children on an Iowa farm, was somewhere (perhaps looking down?) and laughing at me.

Somehow, making the dead laugh can make you feel better.

So, here's to all those women of yore, whose work truly never was done.

Thanks.

And try to keep the laughter down, ladies.

I'm trying to figure out how many pounds of carrots to buy...