Canning

In his book See You in a Hundred Years, the author, Logan Ward, shares how he, his wife and 2 year old son leave NYC and move to rural Virginia. The plan was to spend a year living as people would have in about 1900. They moved in the spring as soon as the garden was producing a few things in the hopes that they would be able to live off the land. As you can imagine, suddenly being with your spouse 24 hours a day brought on some issues. Cracks or stress points that had existed in their marriage prior to the project seemed to become giant holes. He goes on the explain that if they still lived in New York, they would no doubt be spending time on some therapist's couch. As the situation would have it, they worked out their problems over a hot stove and canning jars.

Ahh the healing power of the canning jar. I have no idea why, but each summer I am overtaken with an almost uncontrollable urge to bring in the harvest and fill my shelves with winter goodies. Some may call it The Proverbs 31 woman gone overboard. Others may see lunatic squirrel. Either way, here I am...up to my elbows in pickles and jams trying to figure out how to get tomatoes and green beans finished before school starts next week. Yes, I know "they sell those things at Wal- Mart."


It is no secret that I have a pretty stressful life. Every time I think I will get my head above water, some crazy thing like farm accidents or dental surgery plunges me under again. I have seen a therapist before, and would certainly encourage people mired in depression to do so, but this is not quite the same thing. This is daily life run out of control. Too many outside demands, and not enough of the priorities I want to have. Some days I have nothing to show for my hours in this house. I have carried L all day or refereed kids and end the day exhausted and questioning my worth. Thus canning.

There is something terribly empowering about knowing that even if I don't get to the grocery, I can still fix a fabulous meal by just running down to the garden. Fresh tomatoes and squash are an almost perfect meal. Even better than those fresh veges are the jewel like jars that dot my couter tops at the end of a summer day. This is accomplishment at its best. This is my therapy. The house fills with the smell of ripe fruit as I begin peeling and prepping the product of the day. The kids have to be dealt with, so I strike deals with B and H. "Take L to the trampoline for 15 minutes and then you can have....." Meanwhile I rush like crazy to move hot jars in to position or coax the thick, sticky syrup in my cauldron to a boil; "lava" a friend once called it. Sometimes I get the girls in on the action. We won't be winning awards for consistent sized pickles, but B loves to chop and slice. I may only get a few pints done in a day, but there they sit; neat rows of shiny jars, deep orange, yellow green and various shades of purple. I listen for the lids to ping as I wash up the supplies and can't help but smile. Contentment swells within me. This is a job well done, work with an obvious product to show. This would be enough reason to can, but then there is the look on J's face as he tastes peach jam that is somehow even peachier than the fruit from which it came. And, the over heard comment from H " my Mama makes the best strawberry jam."