Making Marinara

I stood over the stove, the scent of garlic and tomato rising from the bubbling red sauce. The heat from the second pot, this one of boiling water, burned the back of my arm. The steam wafted around me in long, lazy spirals curling the hair at the nape of my neck. My forehead glistened under the bandanna tied tightly over my hair.

Stirring the sauce, I looked at the hot glass jars lined up with military precision. Their gaping mouths waiting to be filled with savory marinara. Dwarfed by the canning and cooking pots, a sauce pan of water  bubbled merrily, sealing lids dancing along the bottom.

Behind me was carnage. Bowls of tomato pulp, stems and seeds lay bloody across the counter. The food mill, it's yawning mouth and jagged teeth dripping juice.

I looked at the clock, the tick a subtle beat marking the time. I'd been up for fourteen hours. I'd spent two in the field picking tomatoes and twelve processing them. This was the last batch before I cleaned the kitchen and called it a night. I arched my back, stretching the aching muscles. The timer went off.

My arms shook as I shifted and lifted. My feet throbbed as I moved across the tile floor. My mind was as foggy as the steam clouded room. Each motion, each movement was automatic.

The water bubbled up and over the side of the pot with a hiss as each jar was gently placed inside.

Pour, wipe, seal, submerge.

With a sigh, I watched the water cover the last jar. Placing a lid on the pot, I set the time and began to clean.

When I finished, I looked at the fruits of my labor: thirteen jars of marinara.

This post was inspired by the Write on Edge prompt: describe a moment in your life and bring us back the sensory treasures you found there, the feelings, scents, textures, sounds, tastes, and colors

I hope I succeeded. Let me know if I didn't. No. Seriously. I'm really working on description...not just adjectives.