Tomato Canning 101

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Tomatoes waiting to be cannedSo. I've never canned anything in my life, which makes me a bit of misfit in these parts. Men and women of all ages here tell stories of helping mothers and grandmothers put up mounds of canned peaches, pickled cucumbers, spaghetti sauce, okra, squash, zucchini, green beans, apples, etc. 

As I learn more about food (and the horrible, horrendous things that go into the canned goods on the supermarket shelves), the more interested I become in learning how to grow and can my own food. (The growing part didn't go so well this year. We harvested one perfect, beautiful squash. Everything else died.) So I was super excited when...

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Chronic Overpacker

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Hello from Kiawah Island! I'm here visiting my best friend and it's nothing but sun, sand... and the three billion items I felt it imperative to bring with me from home for this four-day journey.

I have never been a good packer but I've never really taken the time to sit down and figure out why. There was a 30-mile stretch in South Carolina where I picked up nothing but screaming preachers and church music, so I had a little time to think about where I went errant in my packing ways. 

Here's my best guess: I overpack in the hopes I will transform into a completely different person while on vacation. Someone who casually throws on wide-brimmed floppy hats or knows how to layer bracelets and necklaces and look contemporary and whimsical and not like an aging late 80's Madonna wanna-be. With this me-only-better person in mind, I dig into the recesses of my closet and pull out clothes that haven't seen daylight since the Clinton years. I fully expect that once I see the beach, I'll be inspired by that strapless neon sundress or the clog shoes or the big wooden necklace I had to have and have never worn because for the life of me I can't figure out what it goes with.

I brought a bag of hair accessories because I apparently decided that once I saw ocean, I'd be transformed into someone who knows exactly what to do with a banana clip or a polka-dot headband or sparkly faux-diamond hairpins and that I would intuitively master the art of the french twist. 

That's the dream. The reality is I have spent my first two days here in a swimsuit, shorts, and a rainbow of tank tops with my hair thrown back in a ponytail. 

 The dream has not died however. A group of us are going into Charleston today. I have carefully laid out on my bed a sundress, a floppy hat, necklaces, and rhinestone barrettes. 

I can make it work. I know I can. 

Cheers,

Dena 

What My Phone Case Says About Me

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There are too many options in life. No surprise there. I've written before about being stymied trying to buy a flat-iron and don't even get me started on how long it takes me to select a bottle of nail polish (deciding if I'm a "Carnation Pink," "Sunset Sky" or "Crimson Glow" is just beyond my decision-making capabilities). Now there's a new horror to add to the list: shopping for a shell for my iPhone. 

 

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