Where are the canning jar lids?

It’s 11 o'clock on a rainy Thursday morning.

Drew just restarted the Harry Potter book series and has been gleefully running toward the Triwizard Tournament. He sits on the couch with a mug of coffee within reach and occasionally smiles at something only Hogwarts can see.

Meanwhile…

I’ve already started eight different projects.

The vinegar fogs the windows as pickling brine burbles on the stove.

A cutting board full of basil waits to become pesto.

Garlic skins stubbornly glue themselves to the ends of my fingers.

There’s a sticky ring of honey on the counter that I keep walking past because every time I reach for a rag, I remember something more important.

Did I refill the chicken feeder last night?

Where are the wide-mouth quart lids for canning?

Is that dill still in the fridge?

I look over at Drew, turning another page, and think: Must be nice.

Except, if I’m brutally honest, I don't say, must be nice.

Instead, I roll my eyes and think: Seriously? Lazy.

Because someone has to remember we're almost out of vinegar.

Someone has to stock the freezer for winter.

Someone has to think about the chickens.

Someone has to…

Wait why am I in the pantry?​
​​

Drew looks up from his book with genuine alarm.
​

"Your pot," he says, eyebrows raised with concern as the brine starts to boil over.

I turn just in time to catch it, vinegar hissing onto the burner.

And there's the irony.

I'd spent the whole morning believing I was the only one paying attention.

But it turns out, Drew hadn't stopped caring just because he'd stopped moving.

I exhale deeply.
Funny how quickly righteousness leaves the body.

I stop rushing.

I wipe the stove.

I smash the basil with garlic and salt until the whole kitchen smells like summer.

I make myself a cup of tea and leave another ring of honey on the counter with a shrug.

It will still be there in 10 minutes.

I sit down beside Drew, letting my leg rest against his.

​I drink my tea while it's still hot.

He tells me about the dragon task and Fleur Delacour’s enchantment spell.

I tell him I still think Cedric was robbed for being awarded second place after the first task.

Our dog wedges herself between us, convinced there's room for one more on the couch.

I scooch over, complying.

He finishes his chapter.

The rain relaxes its tempo, and we pull on our chore boots to harvest the Lacinato kale.

It's our first season growing in New York, and the plants on the eastern edge of the field look like a row of little trees.

We stand there for a moment, admiring their vertical canopy and blue-green leaves before cutting anything.

"Not bad," Drew says.

He’s right.

…But I still think he could've helped me find the canning lids.