Alchemist? Dairymaid? Housewife.

Well, here's a funny thing. Today, though it's about a million degrees outside (98 deg., actually, outside, and 91 here in the house), I decided to make corn relish and make a noble attempt at canning it, though I know almost nothing about this.
Unemployment apparently makes us do funny things.
See, we had a big party over the weekend, Ethical Man and I, to celebrate my leaving the bookstore. We had a bunch of people over Saturday night; we conceived this as a cocktail party with heavy munchies to prevent total pukalicious disaster, and expected everyone to've gone home by ten o'clock or so. But it ended up with people still showing up at eleven o'clock. And we finally tumbled into bed at 4.30 in the morning, knowing that we'd have to get up early because another social event was scheduled for the house here to start around 1.30. Which, of course, meant even more cooking.
The menu for Saturday night involved a number of snacky things -- chips, things to dip them into; a corn and black bean salad; and E.M. insisted on sandwich makings. (He can't imagine a social event without cold cuts.) I made hummus, pimiento cheese, a red pepper and nut dip (for the vegans who were expected), and avocado dip. There were practically no leftovers. So Sunday at noon found me making more pimiento cheese, and asking guests to shuck some corn. We had lobster salad, corn on the cob, caprese, and ice cream sandwiches for dessert (those, I bought; I'm nuts but not nuts enough to want to make my own ice cream sandwiches in weather like this).
We ended up with ten ears of corn leftover. I ate a couple of them, cold, for breakfast, but still didn't know what to do with the leftover-leftover ears... and then it occurred to me that I could make corn relish.
So I've done it. I cut the kernels off, chopped up some red peppers and onions, tossed everything in a pot with vinegar and sugar and spices, and simmered the stuff for a while, wondering how exactly to prepare the mason jars. It was a little stupid, really, because I knew I was re-using jars, which you're just not supposed to do (well, you can re-use the jars, but not the lids). But I figure, it's only two jars' worth of food, and it'll be ok to eat this week. I just won't save it to give as Christmas presents six months from now.
Fortunately, we've got company coming this weekend, and I know they'll be happy to help us eat this. I can roast a chicken for dinner Saturday morning, and serve it in the evening cold with the relish, and a big salad, and maybe a nice loaf of bread. It'll be great.
I am, apparently, turning into some kind of uber-housewife. I don't have kids, I am not likely to any time soon, but I spend huge amounts of time cleaning and cooking. Last week I made tomato pie, something I haven't done in probably two years. Yesterday I ironed clothes for the first time. I'm not very good at it yet but I was surprised, as I watched a DVD of "The Lady Eve" and stood at the ironing board that our house's previous owners left in the attic, by how satisfying it was to take a clean but wrinkly and mangled-looking pillowcase, and turn it into something that really did look square and smooth.
Ethical Man and I are people who use handkerchiefs, and folding an ironed hanky is, it turns out, a real pleasure.
I really wish that Ethical Man made a little more money. I mean, I always wish that, and I know he does too. But I used to wish it for sort of noble reasons -- if we had more money, we could afford a sofa and get rid of one of these awful futons, things like that -- whereas now I wish he made more money so that I wouldn't have to feel guilty about staying home and cooking.
I do want to work: I am, in fact, working on getting my own book business off the conceptual level and into the virtual world. But I know I'm never going to make real money. So wouldn't it be nice if Ethical Man could support us doing something he genuinely liked, and I could putter around the house?
Oh, wouldn't it be nice.
What would Laurie Colwin think?