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And that's minus the jar I took to Angie tonight. So massive was my pickle-making undertaking that I wasn't finished with it in time for our 6:00 dinner date. I left the last batch gurgling in the canner under B.'s watchful eye while I ran out the door, reeking of dill, garlic and vinegar.

Thirteen pints of green tomato pickles.

Do you know how many hot dogs I'm going to have to eat to get rid of all those pickles? Well, I don't know either, but I'll bet it's gonna be a lot.

It's such an assholish thing to get irritated when someone's over-generous. But I do get a little irritated when people give me too much of a good thing, especially when that good thing requires work. But sweet Jesus, I have a dozen pints (well, ten, because I'm foisted that big quart jar onto Granny next time I see her) of pickled green tomatoes, made the way I like them with only vinegar, garlic, dill and hot peppers, not a lick of sugar or any other spice better suited to baked goods, unlike the recipe I linked above.

I'm trying to talk myself out of being irritated that I spent my day making these pickles instead of making stuff to sell, which I'm going to have to make tomorrow with Clara Jane underfoot, or on Thursday while she's at daycare because I've got about a bazillion apples that are going to go bad if I don't get busy.

I should have known I had the better part of a bushel of green tomatoes in my possession, and I should have known that's what I was getting when Granny asked if I wanted "a few" tomatoes. That's how Granny operates. "If you need one, she'll give you three!" my mom told me today while I was pissing and moaning about The Green Tomatoes That Ate My House.

This hyper-generosity is why Granny sends Clara Jane every Missouri, Michigan and Minnesota quarter she gets. It's also why, on the first of the month, I can count on an envelope in my mailbox with a card, some photos and a check for $30. It used to be a check for $10, but then I got married so B. got his monthly $10. And when Clara Jane was born, she was added to the $10 gravy train.

It's the reason why I have a cabinet full of vintage chenille bedspreads, the kind that sell for hundreds of dollars. Not only did she give me mine for free, but they also have our family history attached to them.

I was going through my chenille bedspread phase around the time B. and I got married. Granny was making my dress, and I commented on the pretty floral chenille bedspread on her bed. I mentioned that I was coveting a double-peacock bedspread. They were going for well over $300 on eBay, completely out of my price range.

The next time I went to her house to work on the dress, she told me to go into her room, there was something for me on her bed:

Not only was it a double-peacock chenille bedspread, but it was a gift from my grandpa. He was an over-the-road trucker, and the bedspread was a gift from a run he made to Georgia in the early 1960s.

There's a photo of me in one of the six albums of my childhood photos Granny made for me, bald-headed baby, rolling around on that bedspread.

I also have a twin-size purple peacock chenille bedspread that's earmarked for Clara Jane's bed, also a gift from Granny.

I guess the point I'm making is, I need to get over myself and just be thankful. Yeah, I spent my day doing a lot of extra work, but it's work I enjoy for something I love. Had I bought all those tomatoes, it would have set me back a pretty penny, assuming I'd be able to find that many green tomatoes for sale at this time of year.

When I learned to can about six years ago, I did it because I was upset that canning was becoming a lost art. I wanted to be able to have that creative cooking outlet, to embrace the DIY spirit, and to be able to have shelves and shelves of yummies I could share with loved ones, whether they wanted them or not.

Before the first batch of pickles had a chance to cool, I was foisting a jar of them onto Angie, even though they're probably too spicy for her taste and there's a chance she's among the many, many sane people who don't enjoy unripe vegetables soaked in brine. And if I see you, there's probably a good chance I'll foist a jar onto you, too, whether you want it or not. When I do, blame Granny.