Only the beginning

When I came in this morning, there was okra everywhere.  There was so much okra, it was trying to escape from its boxes.

And it seems like a lot.  Well, it is a lot.  But even though we pickled 528 jars, we still need 6024 more.  Now, I'm not the biggest okra fan around.  A lot of people think it's yummy--you know who you are--and I admit to eating some since I've moved to the south, and even making mmmmmm sounds.  I want to fit in, after all.  But it's hairy and prickly and mucilaginous.  I don't trust people who are any one of those three things.  Why would I eat a vegetable that's all three?

  My thumb hurts from pushing it down into the jars.  My thumbnail is blackened with the slime.  It took three washings to get my hands to stop being slippery.  I'm not whining.  I'm just trying to imagine 6024 more jars.  And it took me the better part of the day to wipe all the jars, date them, label them and pack them into boxes.

But it's done.  Someone has instructions to pick it up tomorrow and put it away before it's replaced with more.  I have the next two days off, which I assure you will be absolutely okra-free.  I will weave and sew and clean and launder, hang out with friends and read a book.  If I see any okra, I will turn away.