My Mother's Tomato Dream

There's only one season for these beauties, and it's here

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BACK IN FEBRUARY, on one of those bitter nights when it seems to the old people like it will never get warm again, my mother had a dream about tomatoes.

She was standing in her kitchen, and the counters were piled high, almost to the ceiling, with huge, dead-ripe tomatoes. The smallest was as big as a softball; the largest was the size of her head. Her niece Jeanette, her brother Jimbo's girl, was busy peeling and canning them, moving quick, quart after quart. She had all four stove eyes on high, and the air was white with steam. As soon as they came to a boil, she would fill the clean, new jars; add exactly 1 teaspoon of salt; and reach for the metal rings and lids. She had a hundred jars, at least, already done. Jeanette always worked fast, even in dreams.