Ever have a comment made by someone pop up in your mind years later? Followed by a conversation with yourself wondering why you didn’t think of a better retort, or maybe it totally leads down another train of thought altogether?

I had one of those moments yesterday. Not sure what triggered it. Well, yeah, I kinda do know. I think it may have been thetomatoes.

A few years ago I took a batch of homemade salsa straight from our garden (because I like growing tomatoes, ya know?) to a get-together. When I mean “straight from the garden,” I mean oh-no-I-forgot-we-had-to-take-food-to-the-get-together-and-I-don’t-have-a-lick-of-groceries-thank-goodness-I-like-growing-tomatoes straight from the garden. Seriously, the salsa was so fresh it was a tad warm from the tomatoes having just being picked, with no time to refrigerate. It was fresh indeed.

As a few of us were standing around chomping on the snacks, a couple of people asked about the salsa ingredients, et cetera. And one woman, a sweet dear friend, followed with “Oh, you must be a real woman,” in reference to the fact that I made the salsa from the tomatoes and vegetables I grew all by myself, with my own bare hands.

It was a tad bit awkward, and more than a bit ironic that I was impressing someone due to my slackness. I quickly answered with my explanation that I had not planned well and homemade salsa was all I had as a go-to.

Martha I am not. But I can grow tomatoes and run a food processor. All by myself. With my own bare hands. The hands, apparently of a “real woman.”

But it got me thinking…I thought we were all “real women”? Of course, I mean, those of us reading this, that are, in fact, women. Maybe I’m out of the loop and there are some women out there that are not “real.”

But if by “real woman” you mean chasing my tail amidst a frenetic schedule of appointments and activities, which contribute to forgetting to plan dinner ahead (once again) and having to order pizza or eat cereal…

Or constantly battling mountain high laundry and then having to wear the underwear at the bottom of the drawer – the ones you hate because they ride up your left cheek – because you’ve been too busy to keep up with the laundry…

Or having fashion dilemmas, the kind that involve Spanx or wearing closed-toe shoes because your toes look like hell…

If that (and much, much more) is what it means to be a “real woman,” then oh yes, by all means, I am definitely, most positively a real woman (homemade salsa or not). And from what I can tell, I’m in some pretty darn good company.

Seriously, the point is that we’re all real women, regardless of where our salsa comes from.

So tell me, what makes you a real woman? I gotta know.