The aroma reminded Susan of homemade spaghetti sauce. Of suppers spent around the table as kinner when Mordecai had been on a practical joke streak a mile long and Mudder and Daed pretended to bicker over her cooking or his dirty clothes. It smelled like contentment. Steam billowed from the mammoth pans of tomatoes and green beans on the stove, alongside the wet bath filled with sterilized jars ready to receive their bounty. Sweat dripped down her temples and tickled her cheeks. She wiped the edges of the jar mouth with care not to let the towel touch the contents. “This one is ready for a lid.” “That’s the last of the tomatoes.” Rebekah bustled along behind Susan, adding flats and rings to the steaming jars. “How are the green beans coming?” “Everything is snapped.” Abigail wiped her hands on a ragged dish towel, her face flushed with the heat of the propane stove mixed with humid May air. Summer had arrived on the first day of the month with a ferocity usually reserved for July in South Texas.
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