Quicksand Redux AKA I Hate When my Words Come Back to me

He'd given me fair warning. "If I get home before you do, I'm going to start cleaning out the vegetable bin," my husband said. It was late summer and we'd fallen behind, way behind, on our produce consumption. There were potential science experiments lurking at the bottom of the produce drawer. Something had to be done and someone had to do it. I would be spending the day at Joshua Farm, as I do every Thursday,  and I'd be bringing home a load of fresh fruit and veggies, the payment for my labor. 

Produce sucks me in, so gently and seductively, that at first I never see the warning signs. My mind gets busy spinning out scenarios on how I'll use all this loveliness, "Half dozen ears of corn, a bag of plums, zucchini, okra, onions, garlic and tomatoes, oh my.  Sure I'll freeze those peaches and make a couple of pies. Watermelon, that will be good for desert. Never-mind that it won't fit in our refrigerator. I'm gonna pickle all that okra and make vegetable soup."  I constantly misjudge just how much two people can eat in a week.  Instead of paying attention to the signs that read, "DANGER. QUICKSAND. STAY ON PATH." I forge ahead.  I can't say no. I have a plan. Suddenly, I am knee deep in tomatoes, peppers, and green leafy things; and sinking faster than I realize. I keep thinking, "...But, I'll freeze it. I'll try canning. I think I can dry this." In reality I have limited freezer space, never canned anything in my life, and have only ever dried herbs.

When I arrive home on that Thursday night, my husband is on his knees in front of the refrigerator throwing my plans into a box for the composter. The warning sign is way behind me now.  My hip waders are filling with quicksand as I grab apples and peppers from the box. "Look," I say, "If we cut out the bad spots these apples can be apple butter and these plums aren't too bad either. It can be fruit butter, instead.  These peppers are salvageable, just chop up the good parts, put them in baggies in the freezer." My husband is trying to speak reason to me. He is literally telling me to FLOAT, but I can't hear him as I snatch another soft peach from the box. I am not listening. I throw a pot on the stove, get out the cutting board and knife, attacking the fruit like a woman possessed by demons.

"Where is your stick?" he says,

I rage back at him as I furiously peel and slice fruit. "What? What on earth are you talking about? What stick?" I want to be eating dinner, not chopping fruit or having this inane conversation.

"Where is your stick, Woman? Quit flailing around like a crazy person," says he and at that moment I slice into my finger instead of the plum I was holding.

"Oow!" I drop the knife and grab my finger. Finally, I hear. "Oh, I hate when my words come back to me," I stammer as my husband places a paper towel over my bleeding finger.  He says gently as his hand closes over mine, "I know." I lean back, relax my body and float; allowing myself to be hauled out of the muck.