I've been thinking a lot lately about the word preserve and its variations. The phrase "well-preserved" was recently used in a medical report that I received after having an MRI to determine the cause of pain that I was feeling in my hip. I'm a runner. Pain was keeping me from doing one of the things that I love most. "Well preserved" gave me hope while simultaneously providing a perfectly placed punch to my ego. If you happen to look up the term "well-preserved," you will read this among the definitions:
"(of something old--an old person) having remained in good condition--showing little sign of aging."
I'm thrilled that my joints and bones are looking good but cringe at the thought of being labeled as something old. That, in my mind, somehow equates to no longer being useful or able.
Instead, I think I'll hold on to another variation of preserve/preserved that says--"prepared for future use." That makes me hopeful. That makes me smile. This was what I thought of as I peered into Bruce's dad's freezer and saw the frozen square packages of shredded zucchini that I had placed there in July. I had never given much thought to preserving summer's fruits for use later in the fall and winter. The time and expense involved in the process seemed to far outweigh the benefits. But, preserving the abundant supply of zucchini was important to Dad.
Preparing the bounty brought forth from the garden to be used later had also been important to Bruce's Mom. That was evident when, upon Dad's request, I cleaned out their freezer last fall. As I may have mentioned before, there were some things that had been in the recesses of cold storage for a very, very long time. Much of it--for better or worse--I threw out. I wonder now if perhaps I should have let it thaw, tried to incorporate some of it into one of Mom's recipes. But I did what I thought was right at the time from the perspective of one who didn't understand the time and effort it had taken to fill those shelves.
Recently I found a magazine clipping labeled "Zucchini Cake" held to Mom's refrigerator by a magnet-- like a "to do" note. I touched it gently and then carefully took it down and began to gather the needed ingredients. Flour, sugar, cinnamon, salt--the list began. Baking powder, baking soda, vegetable oil, eggs--it continued. The next ingredient read, "2 cups shredded zucchini." Obviously the name of the recipe had let me know that there would be zucchini in the mix. But this recipe was from Bruce's mom and, as is often the case, contained a bit of mom magic. It was as if she had been there guiding me as I measured, packaged and preserved that seemingly unending supply of squash for the freezer a few months ago. The mini miracle that I was experiencing now, was that I knew that each plastic bag contained exactly two cups of shredded zucchini,
The day that I had prepared the zucchini had been warm and muggy. I recalled that upon completing the task of preparing the squash, Dad and I sat outside under the shade of one of the trees that he had planted in the back yard years ago and shared a moment of rest. We laughed and talked and reminisced. Work was behind us. It was a perfect summer afternoon.
In stark contrast to that day, the Ziploc bag that I took from the freezer--with some pride, I must confess--was icy cold. It had my handwriting on it. Looking at it, I remembered standing at the kitchen sink and shredding the zucchini for an hour or more. It was worth it. Today it would become cake.
We never know which of today's moments will become tomorrow's memories. Like those many bags of zucchini they should be "well-preserved" so that they remain in good condition and prepared for future use. The zucchini will feed our bodies. The memories will feed our souls.
