Maybe I went a little crazy this weekend.
After walking through the tomato patch and counting 66 blossoms a few weeks ago I decided that my little stash of a dozen pints and a dozen quarts was just not going to do it this year. Last year we ate the applesauce I filled those with in less than a month.
My little old Foley strainer may not make it either.
After a jaunt to Walmart, bastion of low prices and other evils of capitalism, I had to rethink my whole plan. A dozen quart jars were $8.50 on sale. A dozen jars at the local IGA are $10.50 (sales? we don't need no stinkin' sales).
Popular opinion was that I should check Freecycle and garage sales. Dean brought home 3 dozen more this month. It still didn't feel like enough.
Last week I finally contacted a woman from CraigsList who was selling 30 dozen jars. On Friday night we drove off into a dark, country night and I bought 13 dozen jars for about $3 a dozen. As I followed her into her field rock basement with walls a foot thick, I realized that I had come to the right place. A place where people inherit jars because Great Aunt Myrtle died, not because they drove over to the Fleet Farm.
At home we immediately unpacked my plunder from the blankets, sheets, bags, and boxes. While my husband picked out cool designs like the red star, the gramma in the rocker, the Atlas strong-shoulders, and the bicentennial liberty bell I made a quick batch of baked donuts and sent the older kids to bed with a sugary O each.
Then I got down to my usual Type A list-making figuring out how many Kerrs I had, how many Balls, how many wide-mouth, how many regular, how many quarts, how many pints, how many special designs. Once I had all that done and felt satisfied to have quantified everything I promptly lost the list. I blame my Type B side. Or maybe the children.
Some days it's hard to tell who to blame.