A friend sent me this poem and it is very fitting for the season. No truer words are spoken. Enjoy!
Apple Jelly
No sense in all this picking,
peeling and simmering
if sheer food is all
you want; you can buy it cheaper.
Why then do we burn our hours
and muscles in this stove,
cut our thumbs, to get these tiny
glass pots of clear jelly?
Hoarded in winter: the sun
on that noon, your awkward leap
down from the tree,
licked fingers, sweet pink juice,
what we keep
the taste of the act,
taste of this day.
by Margaret Atwood
I remember seeing this poem posted on the Toronto subway a few years ago. It stayed with me -- even though I don't generally react much to poetry. When I make jelly, this always comes to mind
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