To: God, gods, universe, Gaia, or whomever
From: Dan, your humble servant
Re: my plea for help.
Listen, I know, Saturday night, exhausted from three days of canning and brewing frenzy, I sort of made a cry for help. A “somebody stop me” sort of cry. But it was, well, sort of tongue in cheek.
What could I do? How would you expect me to react when my mom shows up with 2 Lbs of Concord grapes, lovingly culled from her own grape vine? I mean, these were ripe, and not long for this world. One word came to mind: syrup.
I did it, it was quick, no angst, no fuss. 2 lbs grapes, 1 cup sugar, 2 cups water. Boil, let simmer for 5 minutes, and run through my new food mill.
Why couldn’t you just let my plea go? It wasn’t a promise! I didn’t swear not to can, just sort of wanted not to.
Why, then, why did you have to pass judgement and let it be known in such a spectacular way? Why, just as I lifted the second jar from the boiling water, did you choose that moment to make the items on the bookshelf above my stove, you know, the nice decorative chicken salt and pepper shaker (which are heirlooms if I have any) come crashing to the stove top, with the heavy wooden (and decorative) mortar and pestle right behind? Why did you make it fall, break, knock over the one jar that I had already filled with syrup, causing it to pour down my cupboards, and across the floor? I mean, is that really fair?
I really liked those shakers. And the rooster from Honduras is also cute. Now, damaged.
To spite you, I still got about three cups of syrup.
This, exactly, is why I don’t believe in you. (Except you, universe. I’m pretty sure you’re there.) Your timing sucks, and you totally lack subtlety.