Dear Mister Ed

You know how they say if you dont like it hot then stay outta the kitchen. Thats what I been doin’ the past few days.

Seems like Eva and Maisy has turned the place into part of the assembley line fer Maw Smuckers Jamworks.

This bein’ my first summer hereabouts, I never realized how frantick Brutish Columbyans get when cannin’ time comes bye.

I spose it shud’nt be a surprize, seein’ as theres a frute tree or a berry bush of some kind on evry sqware foot of land.

Even the yuppys in Vancoover has U-Pikit gardens planted atop of there high-rise condoms. Its all about not lettin’ anythink past yer lips that comes from more’n a mile or two away.

Of coarse livin’ on a tiny wee island, a mile away puts you smack into the salt chuck, where there aint much to make jam or jelly with.

Anyways, it started on the home front when Eva reelized the pantry was dang near outta roobarb and rasberry marmalaid.

I mean the stuff she put down in ’78, leave alone bein’ down to the last few dozzen jars from evry year since.

Same thing with the red plum jam, and the purpul and yellow, the boisenberry, the thimbelberry, Saskachatoon and soap berry, the black-and-blue berrys and 8 or 9 kinds of B.C. cherrys alone.

Not to menshun her peach chutney with ginger and red currents from ’96 that seemed like a good idea at the time.

Turns out Walt has been sneakin’ outta bed evry nite and wolfin’ down a tub of vanilla ice creme with haff a jar of jam on top.

When Eva seen she was down to her last 500 jars or so, she near bust a gusset and even put off getting’ set fer the eleckshun to deal with it all.

Ackshually, shes started to figger the eleckshun may not even come that soon, whats with the govamint bein’ down in the poles since the Primed Minnister took leave of his sensus.

Anyways, with the wether so hot and the wommin folks turnin’ the house into a jam facktry, I been stayin’ clear of the place as much as I can.

Asides the airs so thick with shugar, one whiff when I go past the kitchen door and I get wired up like a 9 year old on Halloween.

Mind you, I been doin’ all I can to help. Yestady I spent more’n four hours pickin’ rasberrys and come up with dang near a pint all on my own.

Even Walts helpin’ out, by talkin’ hisself into bein’ put in charge of qwality control.

All that means is he runs around in white coverhauls, takin’ a bunch of samples from evry batch and makin’ notes on a clip board.

He’s so partickular, poor Eva and Maisy has to work twice as hard to make haff as much.

But aint that what allways happens when you pay much heed to a feller that calls hisself an eckspert?

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