The Scent of Autumn

I could smell it on her when she picked me up from the airport, and so I knew she was doing it again. It's the same every year, her passion, her obsession, her art. My mom was canning again.

Every October her garden full of tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers and other items is harvested and she begins the marathon. She makes salsa, chile sauce, pickels, relish, spaghetti sauce, pears and peaches, pepper jelly, and grape juice. She happily invites anyone who takes an interest in the process to become a participant - even offering to come to Missouri to teach me. My sister in law Crystal has learned the skill, I have not - although I have spent 28 years watching, so I've got an idea of what goes on. I prefer to simply benefit from her labors.

As a teenager I loved and hated my mothers need to preserve. I loved the chile sauce on my eggs, salsa and chips on Sunday afternoon, and mustard pickles with ham. I loved the warm smell in the house when I walked in out of the rain, I hated the smell on my clothes as I walked back out. When mom is canning, every corner of the house is filled with the smell, and it sticks for a while. I remember going to high school and knowing that everyone within three square feet of me could smell me - onions, garlic, peppers. I must admit I was embarrassed. Who would ever think that one day I would miss that smell, and so many others. Sometimes during this time of year I walk into my house and something within me expects to smell the sauce, or her cinnamon rolls. It's just a simple part of fall, and I am dissapointed when it is not there. I could try to duplicate it, but it's not just the sauce that I miss, it's my mom. It's knowing that she is going to be home, in the kitchen, and available for several hours of talk because she won't be moving from the stove. My mom made this food to fill our bellies, but really she was filling our hearts - creating something that all of us know is part of the season.

At this moment I smell like onions, peppers, and garlic again, so do both of my children. Quincy, Max, and I are visiting, and Mom is doing spaghetti sauce. I wonder if someday Quincy will smell tomatoes simmering and think of grandma, candy corn, and cousins. I hope she does. This afternoon I will be proud when I go to the grocery store and realize that the clerk is smelling me, because the smell is part of home, and home is precious.