Nick of Time

Still smarting from my camembert crack-up, today I was greatly cheered by my friendly UPS man who - no doubt out of concern for my emotional well-being and fully cognizant of the beneficial effects that his all-too-infrequent deliveries have upon my mental outlook - left a surprise on my front porch while I was at work.

What excitement! What anticipation! My disappointment over my dried-up fromages evaporated as if by magic.

But whatever could it be?

I eagerly - but judiciously - slit the packing tape with my favorite Stanley knife, liberated from laboratory duties some weeks ago. I peeled back the box's top flaps, but was still none the wiser.

I worked my way down through the packing peanuts, excavating layer by layer like some frenzied paleontologist unearthing a mastodon. I was rewarded by the discovery of five additional boxes - small, admittedly, but heavy and laden with possibilities.

I opened each one, almost breathless with expectation.

And what did I discover, nestling in little cardboard cocoons, protected against the vagaries of potholes, sudden stops, and sharp right-hand corners taken at speed?

My new Weck jars, in three different cunning shapes and sizes! Yes, I have decided to try jars with actual glass lids, old-fashioned rubber seals, and honest-to-goodness clips just like in the good old days.

What could be a more felicitous than the arrival of elegant gift-worthy preserving apparatus at the beginning of a three-day weekend - and just as all the stone fruit has started to appear in the shops, too?

Not much, I can tell you.

I feel better already.