This past weekend, a new sound entered the summer chorus. Adding to the chirp of crickets and whistles of returning chickadees, the cicadas have announced themselves with their shrill calls. I can always tell when summer is winding to a close when they arrive. In addition to tell-tale signs like the blooming of asters, ragweed and goldenrod, these old bugs serve to tell me that fall is nearly upon us.
Of course, that makes my urge to "put up" kick into overdrive. Every day now ends with either picking, preparing or processing garden harvests for storing. The dehydrator is constantly whirring away, and it's hardly worth putting the canner to bed on its shelf. I'm constantly washing bowls, pots, shredders and tools like wooden spoons and canning lids. I love it.
Unfortunately, harvest season falls on the start back to my work life as well. I'm not sure who decided that was a good plan, but they obviously didn't consult me.