Tonight I found myself in such a place. I had a choice - sit and brood over my troubles, wasting an evening, or do something productive to work towards other things that I want. Things that I can control.
Perhaps I have a masochistic streak but, even without a glut harvest to deal with, hot, sticky August evenings leave me craving the preserving process. Stirring a steamy pan of goodness to enjoy in the coming year, allowing myself to linger over thoughts of what those times might look like.
It's all so wonderfully predictable - the preparation of ingredients, tending the pan, the constant washing of dishes and wiping of surfaces, the routine of sterilising the jars. Working alone in the kitchen to the CD soundtrack du jour (a little bit of country-style heartache this time around).
The condensation from the steamy windows broke into droplets, like tears, running down the windows right about the time when darkness properly fell.
Rosy cheeked and with a sense of achievement I secured the last jar lid, did the last round of washing up, hung up my apron and clicked off the lights.