Counting to 100

As I tucked three-year-old Jack into bed he would often ask me to give him 100 kisses. I'm not sure he really wanted the kisses, I think it was more of a delay tactic on his part. But as a mom, I couldn't resist. So together we would count to 100 as I kissed his cheek 100 times.

And, a homework assignment from Maggie's first-grade teacher was to bring in a collection of 100 items on the 100th day of school. Maggie spent the better part of an afternoon with her great grandmother sewing 100 large buttons onto an old sweatshirt. That sweatshirt was around our house for years, a reminder of what 100 means and a memory of a February afternoon with Grandmommy. 

On our last two trips, the going has gotten occasionally hard: the last portage through mucky swamp, the time we couldn't figure out where the take-out was for the canoe on an exceedingly windy lake, the last two miles of a ten-mile hike. In desperation, I'd start counting to 100. When I got to 100, I'd start over. Each time, I'd find myself a little closer to our destination. 

And today, when I went out to the garden I found my only two Sun Gold cherry tomatoe plants laden with ripe fruit. I started picking, and I started counting. When I counted to 100 seven times, I quit, leaving twice as many tomatoes still on the vine. 

Now, I've just got to figure out what to do with them. I'm sure there are 100 great recipes waiting for me to try.