kitchen music

I am slowly making a dent in a bushel of tomatoes, compliments of the Amish farmer down the road. He only asked for eight dollars for his labors, and I gladly foisted it over. A young Amish girl, cap askew and bare-footed, silently filled four grocery bags with them, and smiled shyly when I exclaimed, "That's a lot of tomatoes!" She tucked her head down into the shade of her cap, but watched me through her downcast eyelashes as I backed out of the drive.
The papery skins of the garlic were purple-striped and they stuck to my fingers as I peeled them. I employed a trick: lightly mashing each bulb with the blunt end of my knife to release the skins more easily.
A fat bunch of cilantro, after stems were pinched and bruised leaves were discarded, was reduced to a mere cup of chopped green. Its peppery and undefinable fragrance always transports me to Uruapan, Mexico where I first sampled its humble splendors. That was many years ago now.
Sweet onions were tossed into the food processor to conserve kleenex. (Some people cry when they chop onions; I sneeze.)
As for hot peppers, it was a mongrel-mix. In my colander were light green, dark green, orange, and yellow shades, all in varied shapes. Hot is hot, I say. That was my mantra as I scrubbed my hands with plenty of soap in scalding water. Even so, if I rub my eyes today I'm a goner.
Jars were washed, boiled, and set in the oven to keep warm. Lids and bands, too.
This morning's toil & trouble, offered up cheerfully in the name of doing stuff my grandmother used to do, is the prelude to an afternoon of the same. Except the ingredients are bell peppers, garlic, oregano, and white vinegar. My mom is coming to join the fun.
My favorite sound today? The metallic thunk that tells me my hard-won jars are sealed. Absolute music, it is.