Warm. Heavy. Even the smallest ones have the weight of a hundred tiny golden seeds. Leaving a tingle of pressure on my palm.
The kitchen table disappears. An inside sunset of pinks and reds.
Cool water spray. Rinse. Last bits of garden dirt fall away.
Stem pops with twists and a tug. Criss cross with a knife on the skin of the smooth rounded end. Giving it room to swell and slip.
Boiling bubbles dance in stainless steel. Dropping tomatoes. Splashes of hot water bite my wrist.
Assembly line. Rinse. Score. Hot water. Cold water. Peel. Chop. Mason jars heating in a a blue speckled pot. Sharp bolts of lightening on my fingers when I pick them up.
The air thick with heat from the stove. Damp hair itching my neck.
Hands slick and sticky. The smell of tomatoes like a glove. The smell of the sun sitting on my shoulder – buttery warm.
Canning up summer. One jar at a time.