The Bitter Tomatoes: How Preserves Tore a Family Apart
Margaret Whitmore, weary after a long day, meant to call her neighbour but never got the chance. Just as she lifted the trembling phone to her ear, it erupted with a shrill ring, sharp as a warning of storms to come. It was Laura—her late husband’s sister, a woman whose calls always carried trouble. “What now?” Margaret thought. Laura rarely rang, and when she did, it was like a bolt from the blue.
Hesitantly, Margaret pressed the answer button.
“Meg, what on earth are doing?!” Laura snapped without so much as a hello. “I’ve called six times!”
“I couldn’t get to the phone in time,” Margaret murmured, the weight of exhaustion pressing on her shoulders like a sack of grain.
“Of course you couldn’t!” Laura laughed, though the sound was mocking. “Listen—your tomatoes this year, they’re nothing but salt! You need a better recipe, less brine—”
“There won’t be any more salt,” Margaret cut in, her voice steel. “No more tomatoes. No more preserves at all.”
“What do you mean, no more?!” Laura faltered, confusion thinning her voice. “Are you cross with me?”
—
Nine months earlier
Reading time: 5 minutes
Source: Village Whispers
For years, Margaret Whitmore had dreamed of shrinking her garden, but every spring, the cycle began anew—seedlings, beds, soil, an unbreakable spell. The cellar was cluttered with last year’s preserves, untouched by her children or the endless parade of relatives.
Her late husband, Thomas, had once shouldered the work—digging, watering, harvesting. But two winters past, he was gone, and Margaret stood alone against the garden and the endless stream of visitors. His kin came often—to visit the grave, to chat, and of course, to load their baskets with village fare. Laura, more than any, arrived with complaints and demands.
Margaret’s children visited less but helped with the potatoes. The rest she did herself, especially her tomatoes and cucumbers, trusting no one after her daughter-in-law once “weeded” the carrots into oblivion.
“Mum, why so much?” her son Peter would ask. “You bend over this garden like a servant, only to give everything away. Look at Madeline next door—she grows flowers, even sells them! You could do the same, instead of handing out jars like charity.”
“But what will you do without my preserves?” Margaret would protest, though doubt crept into her voice.
“We don’t need that much,” her daughter-in-law Alice would say. “We can buy what we want. But you—Laura takes half your stock for her lot. Enough! Live for yourself now.”
“It’s not that simple—” Margaret would begin, but Peter always cut her off.
“No more ‘buts’! Time to rest.”
Margaret dug out old seed packets and hesitated. Tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, herbs—she had plenty. Maybe a new variety or two? But then she stopped. The children were right. Why bother? She resolved to plant nothing but herbs. Preserves? Only enough for herself, and only a few.
She considered flowers but knew nothing of them. She meant to ask Madeline, but before she could dial, the phone rang. Laura again.
“Trouble?” Margaret thought, her chest tightening.
Laura seldom called except to ask for something. Even holidays slipped her mind. Strange for her to ring in winter—her visits usually began when the harvest neared.
The phone silenced, then rang once more. Margaret answered.
“Meg, where have you been?!” Laura scolded. “I’ve been ringing for half an hour! Winter’s quiet—what’s keeping you?”
“I was—” Margaret began, but Laura rode over her.
“Never mind. About your tomatoes—so much salt! You must change the recipe, less vinegar too—”
“No more salt,” Margaret said coldly. “No vinegar. No sugar. That’s it, Laura. Enough.”
“Enough?!” Laura sputtered. “Are you angry with me?”
“No. Just tired. Time to live for myself. The children have been saying—”
“Then let them help!” Laura interrupted.
“My children are good to me,” Margaret said calmly. “But when did you last ask after me? The doctor says—less salt, less sugar. So there won’t be any.”
“That’s all very well, but what about us?!” Laura pressed. “Your seedlings—are they ready?”
“Growing,” Margaret said shortly, though inwardly she smiled. There were no seedlings now, and there never would be again. Five tomato plants—that was plenty. For herself.
After hanging up, she rang Madeline at once.
“Come over,” she said. “Tea’s waiting, and it’s dull alone.”
Over tea, they spoke of summer plans.
“I’d like to grow flowers, but I don’t know the first thing,” Margaret admitted. “You sell yours, and it’s no trouble.”
“Flowers need care too,” Madeline smiled. “But no pickling, thank heavens. I sell potted ones—my granddaughter helps online. The market’s dreary alone. Could use company, but you’d never go. Not with your jars weighing you down.”
“Hardly any jars left,” Margaret sighed. “The family took them all. No more preserves. I’m done. And still they lecture me about salt—”
“I refused everyone but my children,” Madeline said. “Want vegetables? Here’s a spade, there’s the plot. But mine live far off—no use to them. I live for myself. Summer trips? No greenhouses to mind. A few hens are plenty. You’ve a flock!”
“That’s right—the hens!” Margaret brightened. “I’ll sell most, keep a pair like yours. Fresh eggs, that’s enough.”
“Good for you, Meg!” Madeline laughed. “Fancy the market with me? You with herbs, me with flowers—better company, lighter loads.”
“Done!” Margaret grinned.
When Peter and Alice arrived to plant potatoes, they gaped at the changes. The greenhouse was a sea of green—dill, parsley, chives.
“Mum, turning herb farmer?” Peter chuckled.
“Herbs sell,” Margaret said. “Madeline does flowers, I’ll do these. Second batch nearly ready.”
“And next year? Back to tomatoes, jars, guests?” Alice teased.
“Not a chance!” Margaret said firmly. “Just for us, and only a little. Madeline suggested perennials—less work, pretty too. Haven’t bought any yet.”
“We’ll get them!” Alice promised. “And a summerhouse—tea there with Madeline, proper rest.”
“A pretty one?” Margaret asked hopefully.
“The prettiest!” Alice said. “I’m a designer, remember? And I’ll sort the flowers, where to plant what.”
“Then get to it,” Peter grinned. “We’ll handle the potatoes.”
“Mum, I’m glad you’ve come round,” he added. “All that work just for Laura and her brood. Let them dig their own if they want it.”
“Still…” Margaret sighed. “I warned her, but she didn’t listen.”
“You’ve said your piece. Her problem if she ignored it,” Peter shrugged.
Laura and her husband arrived in late August. The potatoes were dug early—the summer had been dry, and rain was forecast. Peter and Alice had stored the crop. In the greenhouse, herbs thrived; radishes peeked from beds. Just enough.
“Bit bare, isn’t it?” Laura said, scanning the yard. “All done already?”
“Just the potatoes,” Margaret said.
“What’s with the flowers? And herbs in the greenhouse?” Laura pressed.
“Herbs sell. No waste. Flowers are for pleasure. Less work, more beauty.”
“I see…” Laura drawled, displeasure seeping in. “Your children are diligent. Hope you took my advice about the salt?”
“I did. No more salt. Or jam,” Margaret said evenly.
“What happened to the berries?” Laura asked.
“Some frozen, some sold. I don’t need much.”
“You’re serious? What about us?” Laura’s voice climbed.
“You should’ve come and picked them,” Margaret said.
“How dare you?!” Laura exploded. “This was my brother’s home! The bushes, the trees—our father’s! Who are you to keep it all?”
“Thomas and I replanted most,” Margaret said calmly. “Only that sour apple tree’s left. The house? You sold us your share. We didn’t ask—you offered. Now it’s mine. Fewer vegetables, no preserves. I don’t need much, and the children have no storage.”
“Can’t you see how selfish this is?” Laura fumed. “We drive miles, and you won’t even lift a spade!”
“I’ll lend the spade,” Margaret said. “But I won’t dig.”
“Aunt Laura, what of your own cottage?” Peter cut in. “You bought it when you sold out here.”
“Clever boy!” Laura snapped.
“Indeed,” Peter saidMargaret watched the dust settle behind Laura’s car, feeling the weight of years lift at last, and knew she had finally chosen the right path—her own.
