When your tomato plants look as sad as mine do right now, and your father-in-law calls and offers you the rest of the ripe tomatoes he's got on his plants, you high-tail it up there and glean away, baby. It doesn't matter that you're leaving town the next day and really need to pack, or that you've got a bazillion things still left on the all-important list-of-things-to-do-today, or that it's pretty much the hottest afternoon we've had all year. You drop it all, and you go.

Blinded by your own sweat, you pick about 60 pounds of ripe tomatoes. And, then, all hot and sweaty, you stop by the store for some more canning jars, mushrooms, and a bottle of wine. And, once the kids are in bed, you bring that pot to a boil and have a spaghetti-sauce-making party with your sweetie -- skinning and coring and chopping and boiling and filling and sealing -- as you enjoy one another's company. . . . Or, that's what I did anyway!

Thanks, Sam!