“Oh Shirley,” my husband always snorts, his exasperation rising a notch. If only I’d lay off, for once.

The thing is, I’m too much like Anna. Worry worry worry. Pick pick pick.

She’s the worst stickler—this Anna. That’s what a person has to understand. Anna’s peaches in the kitchen hutch, for example? Her tomatoes, soft-fleshed apricots, cherries, prickly pickles, beets in a spicy brine, sweet sugared applesauce? Her jars of grape pie filling (the skins pinched off, the slithery eyeballs boiled to mush and sieved, and then the skins dumped back in with the pulp)? Is her display too overweening and vain? It’s dumb little questions like this that niggle at her.

Maybe you’ll decide the woman is plain nuts. You have the right to your opinion. At least check her out here—get more of the story.