“So gross,” she said, making a face.
“You might enjoy living on a farm,” I said.
“Did you grow up on a farm?”
“Sort of. Mama liked to raise chickens and rabbits. And she always has a garden, of course. I spent most summers out in the sun weeding those gardens, me and my brother Billy. Mama tried to get me to help her with the canning, but I hated it.”
“What’s canning?”
“That’s when you preserve fruits and vegetables. You know. Like jams and jellies and pickled okra. You put it up in jars.”
“What’s pickled okra?”
“It’s the most awful stuff you can imagine,” Jackson said.
“It’s good!” I countered. “And don’t you say a word about Mama’s fried okra.”
“I didn’t mind her fried okra, but some of that other stuff was out there.”
“Like what?” I asked, feigning outrage.
Amelia seemed to enjoy our pretend argument.
“All that fried chicken, to start with,” Jackson said. “There are other foods, you know.”