Anna's Jam

"I'll do it!" Anna exclaimed, excited at the prospect. "You go! Take care of Grandma tomorrow and I'll make the jam!"
'This could be bad,' I thought. 'She breezes through instructions, leaves out ingredients, walks out of the kitchen leaving things cooking on the stove.' Visions barreled through my mind: peach parts fallen in layers to the floor, splattered on the counters, stools, cabinets and frig, froth spilling over the pot, onto the stove, gooey streams oozing down the sides of the stove caught by the wall.
"This could be ugly," I said quietly.
"Huh?"
"Anna, I just don't know. You've never done anything like this before. You've never helped or even watched me make the jam." But then I looked at the breakfast bar with layers of tiny 2nd year peaches almost too ripe to use. The jam had to be made or little peaches would be pecked to the pit by chickens. In reality, I thought, it would take Anna at least four hours to skin, pit, and chop four cups of those minuscule fruits. "OK." It was a very reluctant concession.
"Alright, Mom!" Anna quickly found pencil and paper. "Tell me what to do." I recited the short list of ingredients, a set of cooking instructions and brought seven jelly jars out of the garage and into the kitchen. I reviewed the instructions again. "MA! I GOT IT! I'LL BE FINE!"
The next morning, while Anna still slept, I left for my parents. Since I was not at home, I assumed Anna would probably sleep until 11:00 am. I would probably be home close to 1:00 pm. What could happen in two hours?
11:30 . . . the dreaded call from Anna. Is she hurt? Scalded? Cut off a finger? Was there a fire? Is the house still there?
Trying to sound calm, "Hi, Anna. How's it going?
"Hi Momma!" She sounded as if she hasn't seen me in days and was excited just at the sound of my voice. "Everything is fine, Ma. I just have one question."
Here it comes.
"Why are the peaches turning brown?"
Is that all? Brown peaches? I sucked in some oxygen, slumped in a chair and gave her a short answer to her question. "I'll be home in an hour, Anna. Be careful," and I hung up the phone.
An hour and a half later I was on the way home. Thirty miles seems interminable when one's imagination has no limits. I buttressed myself as I entered the house.
There at the stove stood Anna . . . stirring . . . stirring what looked liked 5 cups of sugar. I glanced around the kitchen and, yes, there was a mess, but nothing unusual. She had followed directions to the tee. She had just begun the cooking and I was as proud - and relieved -  as could be. I helped her sterilize the jars, check for jellying, fill the jars, and process the finished product.
Anna's jam is a success and so is Anna, who beams with pride every time someone asks for jam for their biscuits.