I usually begin to write my column on Saturday, leaving it for a day or two, returning on Monday or Tuesday to edit.  Not this week.  Procrastination sat me down on Tuesday afternoon to put digital pen to paper when I found this piece, I wrote seven years ago.  It summarizes my approach to life perfectly … one that is not my ideal but my real.  I hope you enjoy it:

Friday afternoon was beautiful.  Warm, sunny, just the perfect day to pick berries.  So I did.  Basket in hand, I began the yearly ritual of remembering my grandmother and harvesting the wherewithal to make jam. It was midafternoon and I was the only one at Burdocks berries. This is as close to paradise as you can get in Borodino. The only sound came from the birds calling across the fields and the crickets jumping in and out of the stands of fruit I had picked two quarts when my aging back told me to stop.

My intention was to make jam that evening, but I didn’t.  Just the thought of gathering all of the equipment, sterilizing the jars and bringing the water in the big canning pot to the boil made me need a nap. Besides, I hadn’t checked my email or Facebook all day.  It was on Facebook that my fate was sealed.  There, from some site that I haven’t “liked” was a listing of hairstyles that were good for the summer.  I started to read and realized after contemplating the various coiffeurs, I had neither the hair nor the time to conjure any of the proffered options.  So, no jam and no nap … and no new hairstyle either. I put the berries, basket and all into the refrigerator, next to the milk and orange juice.

Then came Saturday.  Surely I would make the jam on Saturday.  The whole day lay ahead of me.  How long would it take to schlep the canner, the empty jars and new lids and the big cooking pot upstairs?  What, five minutes … maybe ten if I took it slowly?  I dutifully checked the berries, still resting in their basket on the middle shelf in the fridge. But first I had some laundry to do and there were two plants that needed moving in my garden.  Then there was lunch and the village wide garage sale and I thought that I would wait until early evening when it would be cooler.   I took a nap and worked on sorting some photographs, both of which took longer than planned.

Now, it was Sunday.  Our son was running in the Boilermaker in Utica and my spouse wanted to be there for him.  Being there not only meant driving to Utica, it meant a lot of walking over uneven terrain.  I demurred and stayed home.  This would be a good time to make the jam.  First though, there was church, then a quick run to the store to get copy paper for a project left unfinished because I ran out of paper, then, of course, there was lunch and a great need to get out to camp to rescue the succulents that my sister-in-law had brought me a week before.  The plan was now to work out at the cottage, meet my husband for dinner at some place that takes money in return for food and then, while I was watching Sunday night TV on the little set in the kitchen, then, I would make the jam.

I got a phone call from the spouse saying that he, our son and his girlfriend were coming out to camp. What was I planning for dinner?  OK, so another quick run to Nojaim’s to get ground beef, rolls and corn.  No jam on Sunday night and Monday’s option was good only in the evening.  OK, jam in the evening on Monday.  I checked the berries again.  No mold. Good.

After an exhausting but rewarding day in the Emergency Department on Monday, I arrived home in the torpid, so hot afternoon, thinking that only an idiot would fire up the stove and boil gallons of water while standing over a  steaming cauldron of berries and sugar.  I checked the berries. Still good.

Today is Tuesday and I made the jam.  Well, I think it’s jam.  Rather than use pectin, which would mean another trip to the store and who knows what temptations to procrastination, I elected to use my grandmother’s recipe: one cup of fruit to one cup of jam and boil until two drops come to one on the edge of a spoon.  I did that and made about 10 half pints of wild black raspberry jam … or wild black raspberry syrup.  We’ll find out when the jars cool down.   And people think I’m organized.  Sad.